


Love, Destiny, and Other Such Bullshit

by vands38



Series: Rumours [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: (including timeline discrepancies in the actual show), Angry Sex, F/F, F/M, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Kaer Morhen, Love Confessions, M/M, Multi, POV Yennefer, Pining, Polyamory, Pre-OT3, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, Yennefer Has Feelings, everyone is bi, like... three times, magic fixes everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22441948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vands38/pseuds/vands38
Summary: Yennefer discovers that Geralt has been sleeping with Jaskier and is forced to confront her own feelings about the matter. Meanwhile, Nilfgaard are fast approaching and a troubling vision implies that Ciri might not be the only one in danger...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Rumours [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1595146
Comments: 125
Kudos: 686





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few quick notes - 
> 
> **Timeline**! I can now confirm that the main plot is set approx 16-24 months after the season finale / Fall of Cintra. I’ve gone back and made some edits to clarify this, the major one being in ‘Tossing More Than A Coin’. Cliff notes: Jaskier is v hurt by the fact that Geralt has not fucking apologised for his little hissy fit in the dragon episode. 
> 
> **Geralt has two hands**! I’ve addressed it in the comments but I wanted to clarify for the casual reader too - I can assure you that this is a POLY fic and will remain that way. I like emotionally torturing my characters because what else is fanfiction for? But there will be no “picking between sides” kind of bullshit happening in this fic. It’s gonna be both Yen/Geralt & Jaskier/Geralt to the very end. In fact, you may find that it turns out very well for them indeed…
> 
>  **Triss Merigold makes an appearance**! I fell in love with her in the show and I figured, hey, Yen’s got good taste, she probably did too. But just a note that I’m very much sticking to the show’s portrayal of her (an angel!) instead of the games (morally dubious!) or the books (don’t know! haven’t read them!) Also, Yen/Triss is just a side-pairing so this chapter is probably as explicit as it will get for them.
> 
> This one also ran long so it will be split over two or three chapters.

Destiny is bullshit.

That damned word is everywhere in her life since she met Geralt and she resents every single utterance of it. Yennefer fought for every card in her hand; it wasn’t given to her by some mystical hand of destiny. It wasn’t ‘destiny’ that left Nilfgaard in the hands of Fringilla - it was her own selfishness. It wasn’t ‘destiny’ that bound her to Geralt - it was a djinn. For every accusation of destiny thrown at her, Yennefer always has a biting retort to throw back.

Not this time though; not with Ciri.

-

Before the Battle of Sodden Hill, Yennefer had been ready to accept death. But now, struggling through the battlefield, somehow still breathing, she concludes that life must not be done with her just yet.

Nor, it appears, her wishes.

Yennefer had always longed for a child and just when she had accepted the futility of her wishes, a child was delivered to her in the most unexpected of ways: Geralt striding towards her on the battlefield of Sodden with his Child Surprise in tow.

Yennefer hadn’t seen the witcher since they’d parted ways on King Niedamir's mountain but she had thought of him often - too often in fact that when she first sees his silhouette appear on the horizon, she thinks it no more than a trick conjured by her exhausted mind. But then, as a child emerges from the fog beside him, she realises this must be a fantasy of a different kind.

Geralt cautiously puts his arms around Yennefer and levers her to standing. He tells her they found a few other survivors - Tissaia and Triss among them - and that they await on a farmer’s cart ready to be taken to a healer.

“Why are you here?” she asks with scrutiny. She gazes across at his tensed jaw and his stoic glare fixed on the horizon as his strong arm supports her in her attempt to move forward. She simply doesn’t understand his motive. The vile things they said to each other after the dragon hunt… why would he risk coming here? How did he know she was at this battle? Why was he even nearby? She clings to him and wishes she didn’t have to, or at least that she didn’t take so much comfort in it.

“We came for you,” the girl says plainly.

Yennefer looks at the child - determined and strong but underneath, a longing for safety, a longing for home - and sees herself reflected back. Yennefer knows, whether by instinct or magic, that she will become this child’s mother, and Geralt, the child’s father. She knows this like she knows the sun will rise in the morn.

Yennefer looks at the child and looks at Geralt and considers all that had to have happened to have brought them here together - all the thousands of stitches in the tapestry - and for a moment, Yennefer lets herself believe in destiny.

-

Yennefer parts ways with the other survivors and travels with Geralt and Cirilla to Kaer Morhen. Other witchers come and go during their stay but for the most part the only people manning the fortress are the three of them and the old Witcher, Vesemir. And as the witchers begin training Ciri with wooden swords, Yennefer begins to train the girl in magic.

Ciri is scared of her power. It is raw. Untamed. Destructive. Yennefer would be lying if she said she wasn’t concerned. The child needs to learn control as she had, but Ciri is much more interested in donning the old boys’ trousers and scaling the walls than she is meditating on her power.

After a month of fruitless labour, Yennefer begins to think she may not be the best tutor for the girl. Ciri loves her as a mother - they squabble over chores and laugh at Geralt’s expense and share wisdom while they hunt and gather - but Ciri does not appreciate her as a teacher, and deep down, Yennefer understands why. Aretuza’s methods are effective, yes, but also strict and cruel. Yennefer’s desire to have Ciri master her control is too potent, she pushes her too fast, and as Ciri gives up in frustrated tears, yet again, Yennefer knows she must choose between being a loving mother or being a strict teacher.

Her choice is not really a choice at all.

-

Yennefer finds Geralt that evening meditating against the setting sun atop the tower of the gatehouse, far away from the evening festivities inside the castle. She watches as the breeze from the valley lifts the strands of hair from his neck and, against her will, her sense memory recalls the unexpected softness of his hair between her fingers, the heat of his neck against her lips, his beard scratching against her skin… and her heart restricts at the onslaught.

 _Love._ An emotion no doubt created by the djinn to bind them. She grits her teeth and pushes it aside, just as she has countless times in the past few weeks she has watched him take naturally to fatherhood, and walked past him wantingly at night, and watched him read - soft and approachable - by firelight… she pushes the emotion aside and continues her approach to the exposed fortification.

He comes out of his meditation with a sigh instead of the startled angry yelp he used to and looks up at her with an indulgent smile. “What can I do for you, Yen?”

She is helpless against that smile. She leans back against a crumbling merlon and looks out over the northern valley bathed in late autumnal light. A beautiful yet practical view; she sees why he chose this locale. “Ciri needs a tutor. Of the magical kind.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grumbles as he gets to his feet. He must have been here a while judging by the firm indentation he leaves behind in the dry grass. “Why? She has you, does she not?”

Yennefer sighs, wondering when she became someone that people _took for granted_. “As much as it pains me to admit it, I do not have the skills - nor, I doubt, the _patience_ \- to teach her for much longer.”

Geralt huffs a laugh as he comes to join her by the interior crenellations; he has also had to practice a great deal of patience while training the stubborn child. Only this morning did Vesemir throw a hefty tome at her for refusing to study draconoids. 

“I have a couple of people in mind that might be willing…” Yennefer muses. “But it will take me some time to locate them and determine their trustworthiness.”

Geralt folds his arms and looks to the ground, his jaw clenching ever so slightly. “You’re leaving.”

Yennefer feels her own irritation rise at Geralt’s indignation. She is not _his_ to keep. They cannot have spent the last month dancing around each other, playing ignorant at the love they both feel, only for him to be possessive now. She has seen his deep desires every time their eyes lock but if he had truly wished to challenge her on her declaration, then he would have done so. Geralt’s determination to adhere to her wishes implies that he concurs; as long as their desires are entangled with the djinn’s wishes, they cannot be trusted, and should not be acted upon. With the depth of feeling she had seen in his eyes, she had expected him to challenge her on this or at least have struck for a compromise; had he asked for relations with no attachment, a release to their frustrations while in such close proximity, she likely would have agreed. But, he asked for no such thing. Instead, they have wound each other tight; funnelled their sexual frustration into a frustration much easier to indulge.

Yennefer tries to keep a level head as she folds her arms and turns to face him. “Yes, I’m leaving. It was never my intention to stay for this long in any case.”

“Hmm,” he says again, his eyes still fixed to the ground. Then he looks up with a harsh glint to his eyes. “Have you informed Ciri? The girl loves you like a mother-”

“Don’t you dare use that against me, Geralt,” she snaps, her patience with him utterly shattered. He knows her love for Ciri is her weak point and that’s exactly why he used it against her. “I’m doing this for her. And, yes, she knows. As a matter of fact she took it a lot better than you just did.”

Geralt knocks his head back against the wall and swears. He looks genuinely frustrated. “How come every time we talk it ends in a fucking argument?”

His glare reaches hers and a fire flares to life between them. They are arguing, she thinks, because they are not _fucking_. He snarls and she fumes and all she wants to do is twist her hand into his open shirt and just fucking _wreck_ him.

Yennefer is halfway through shutting down this instinct when their eyes lock and instead of seeing his usual broken-hearted anguish she sees the same fierce desire reflected back at her. He wants to fuck. For once, his desires are purely venereal; not clouded by anything as inconvenient as _sentiment_.

She smirks in vindication as she pulls at his shirt and drags him to the ground to fuck.

-

It’s fast, rough, and entirely undignified. There is age-old dirt lodged in hair and grass clinging to buttocks, but as she lies there panting afterwards, she can’t find it within herself to care. The rage within her has calmed. The djinn has been satisfied.

The sun has since disappeared behind the horizon and so she must squint in the darkness to see Geralt beside her, his bare chest rising and falling, recovering his breath. He turns to look at her, his amber eyes glowing in the darkness. “We should have been doing that the whole time.”

She sees sentiment start creeping into his gaze and breaks away before she can see it. She sighs as she dresses. “We were not because you kept bringing _feelings_ into it. Feelings which we have no way of telling are real.”

Geralt grunts and leans up on his elbow to watch. “So we can fuck as long as I don’t get _sentimental_ about it?” He says the word with disgust as if he’s not guilty of the very act. The idiot never did understand the true extent of his feelings; he must bury them under so many layers of bullshit that by the time he indulges in an actual emotion, it must be near-unrecognisable to him.

Yennefer hesitates in her answer, trying to find the words to both explain the magic that binds them and to justify her whims. “Until we break the bond, the djinn will find ways to keep bringing us together. I refuse to indulge in our feelings; that could be dangerous. But it might, perhaps, occasionally be healthy to satisfy the djinn’s other cravings.”

Geralt huffs another laugh of amusement. “You make us sound like a pair of star-crossed fools in one of Jaskier’s ballads.”

Yennefer smiles at the mention of the bard. Geralt doesn’t have many friends but for some reason he seems to hold Jaskier in high regard. He mentions him often enough that Yennefer begins to wager that he misses his company.

Yennefer gathers her shawl and finishes dressing as Geralt looks on with sad puppy-dog eyes.

“You truly mean to leave?” he asks.

Yennefer nods. “Tell Ciri…” she hesitates, looking back to the castle with its still-flickering candles. Perhaps she ought to have given her a proper goodbye. “Tell Ciri I shall return.”

“You’d better,” she hears Geralt say as she conjures a portal and steps through to the other side.

-

Naturally, Yennefer is delayed several times on her way to track suitable tutors. All in all, she is gone from Kaer Morhen for over a year. At last, she is close to securing Triss Merigold, when she hears the rumour from the sorceress herself -

“-Nilfgaardians,” she says, “Heading North,” she says, and all Yennefer can think is: _Fuck_.

-

“Let me go with you,” Triss offers when Yennefer comes to the inevitable conclusion that Fringilla and her cronies are heading to Kaer Morhen.

The offer is tempting, as a buffer between her and Geralt if nothing else, but she’s also not sure if involving Triss at this stage is wise. They do not have the most platonic relationship and introducing that dynamic to her already fraught relationship with Geralt would likely cause disaster. However, Triss could prove a good ally if they cannot resolve things peacefully.

“I’ll get more information,” Yennefer reasons. “See what we’re up against. I’ll send for you if I need you.”

Triss smirks, “You always do.”

-

Yennefer undertakes what research she can - discovers Cahir has been imprisoned for his failure and thus is not amongst the soldiers numbers as she first feared - and then portals to the lake at Kaer Morhen. Now she knows Nilfgaard are on their way, she won’t do anything as bold as portal straight in and out of the fortress.

An hour later, she arrives at the keep to find a sleeping Ciri and a pensive Vesemir by the fireplace. A familiar sight. Yennefer had visited a handful of times over the past year to keep tabs on Ciri but she was always careful when doing so to avoid Geralt. A feat that was easy to accomplish given Geralt’s habit to sleep on the top floor of the library with Ciri, far away from the witchers’ bunks. Yennefer had been tempted to cross the breach many times, but resisted, knowing it was much easier to keep the djinn’s desires at bay if she didn’t give into the urge for proximity.

“Yennefer,” Vesemir greets, cracking his back as he stretches. “I see, once again, that you arrive alone. Still no luck finding a tutor for Cirilla?”

“Hmm,” she says distractedly. Ciri is nearby for once - sleeping down here in the witchers’ bunks - and she cannot resist her motherly instinct to pull the blanket across her shoulders from where it had slipped. Afterwards, she lingers, consumed with familial love and the pain that was leaving her behind. But as Ciri frowns in her sleep, plagued by another nightmare, Yennefer is cruelly reminded of the importance of her visit and returns to Vesemir with urgency.

“Something’s come up,” she tells the old witcher, looking around for signs of Geralt. “I need to speak to you and Geralt both.”

Vesemir starts laughing, cackling away like a madman. Luckily, Ciri must be used enough to his bouts of lunacy that she sleeps right through it.

“What?” she asks. “What is it?”

He shakes his head, still chuckling. “The one time you actually have the balls to see Geralt and the man’s not here.”

“What do you mean?” Yennefer asks, joining Vesemir by the fire. She didn’t think Geralt would ever leave Ciri’s side; it must have been important. Worry begins to creep in under her skin. “Where is he?”

“On the Path,” Vesemir sighs. “I think he finally got tired of waiting for you. He’s gone to Velen. For a wealthy contract, supposedly.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Yennefer says empathically as Vesemir passes her a flask and she eagerly drinks the hard alcohol within. “Any idea where?”

“No,” he says. “He was vague on the details. So this one wouldn’t follow him I imagine,” he says with a nod over at Ciri. “I know he must have passed through Novigrad already though. Eskel was in the area some weeks ago and sent word that he’s nowhere to be found.”

“Where’s Eskel heading?” Yennefer asks, curious if the other witcher could be of use.

“South. To see if he can find work amongst the war.”

That piques Yennefer’s interest. She checks Ciri is still sleeping soundly behind them and then lowers her voice, “Eskel didn’t mention a strange entourage, did he? Merchants dressed in black. Three men. One woman.”

Vesemir frowns. “No. Why?”

“Nilfgaardians. Fringilla among them. Word is they set out from their encampment some days ago heading north. I need to know how far behind they are.”

“You fear they’re coming here?”

Yennefer glances over at Ciri again, but the girl appears to be sleeping still, sniffling a little in her sleep. “I know they are,” Yennefer tells him with gravity. “I have a plan to move Ciri to safety, but we’ll have to be on foot, which means we will need Geralt’s sword and knowledge of the land.”

“Hmm,” Vesemir says thoughtfully, in a way that reminds her painfully of Geralt. “Very well. It goes without saying, of course, that you have my support as well.”

Yennefer smirks. “I’ve already factored you into the plan. You’re to stay at Kaer Morhen. Convince them you haven’t seen a soul in years. In other words, act like the crazy old man you already are.”

Vesemir chuckles. “Very well.”

“You’re not questioning this as much as I thought you would,” Yennefer says pensively. She expected Vesemir to dismiss her concerns, or at least conjure his own plan to spirit Ciri to safety given their usual disagreements regarding her welfare. 

Vesemir's eyes shift over her shoulder to look at the girl in question. “Hmm,” he says. “I do not question because your theory is sound. Cirilla’s been having nightmares lately. Black figures approaching. And from what we know about her dreams...”

Yennefer nods grimly; Ciri had proven her prophetic talents at the Battle of Sodden Hill.

“As for finding Geralt… he said the djinn bound you together. Perhaps you ought to meditate on that."

Yennefer frowns in consideration. The idea of prodding and poking the djinn’s magic within them seemed foolish but perhaps there was untested potential there. “Very well,” she says. “I’ll work on a spell, see if I can’t find him amongst the bogs of war-torn Temeria.”

-

Yennefer portals to a pigsty in some backwater village in Velen. She doesn’t know if the spell has worked until she hears Jaskier bellowing from an open tavern door and stumbling into the night air, drunk as a rat’s arse.

Yennefer preens at her success because surely wherever Jaskier is, Geralt will not be far behind.

The bard jumps a mile when she approaches him at the stables and she tries not to look too pleased by his obvious discomfort. But then, all of Yennefer’s assumptions are put to bed when he tells her that he hasn’t seen Geralt since the dragon hunt.

The bard looks upset by the fact. She looks into his eyes for the truth and stumbles upon a different truth instead: Jaskier desires him. Interesting. She tucks that piece of information away and continues their discussion.

"Well I’m sure he’s fine,” Jaskier says briskly when Yennefer admits she's on the hunt for the witcher. “He’s always fine.”

The bard sounds bitter. Briefly, Yennefer wonders if Geralt cut him as deeply that day on King Niedamir's mountain as he did her. She nearly tosses him a reassurance - after all, she knows the bard still occupies Geralt’s thoughts; she might even go as far as to say the witcher _misses_ him - but she refuses to do Geralt’s dirty work for him. The witcher can make his own damn apologies if he wishes to make amends.

Instead, Yennefer leaves the bard with a message about Ciri. Velen is only so big, after all, and one of them ought to stumble across their witcher before too long.

-

Yennefer’s second attempt is much more successful - she portals at sunrise to yet another shitty village in Velen but this time luck, it seems, is on her side.

“Geralt,” she greets in surprise as she finds the witcher perched atop a roof. He slides down towards her and despite her urgent business she can’t help but tease him. “Did the tavern evict you for poor behaviour? Or is the rooftop truly your preferred accommodation for the night?”

Geralt smirks as he strides towards her. _Fuck_ , if she didn’t miss that smile. “Contract,” he grunts.

“Rats?” she teases.

“Vampire.”

She raises an eyebrow as her amusement gives way to frustration. Did Geralt think this supposed vampire was reason enough to leave Ciri in danger? The damn thing will probably turn out to be just a fool in cloak anyway.

Geralt infuriates her, yet again, when she fills him in on the Nilfgaardians and her plan to evacuate Ciri and he refuses to abandon his contract. Yes, she got word from Lambert that the Nilfgaardians were still a few days away from Kaer Morhen but that was no reason to delay; the sooner they move Ciri to safety, the better. When he hesitates, she sees a reluctance in his eyes that goes deeper than the simple lure of coin and it unsettles her that she cannot interpret its meaning.

Yennefer feels her rage thrumming again as they bicker and Geralt brings up his feelings again and she is about to throttle him when he specifies: “I was talking about other wants. Other _needs_.”

He wants release. He wants a repeat of what they shared atop the gatehouse tower a year ago.

Their eyes lock. Fire erupts. And seeing as he has already delayed their journey north, she sees no harm in indulging.

-

Yennefer leaves shortly afterwards to make preparations, leaving Geralt to his monster and whatever urgent business he had to undertake in the city.

Her first port of call is to return to Triss Merigold. Yennefer has had time to meditate on her options and realised that she will find no better tutor for Ciri. On the surface, Triss may seem like an odd choice - she is shy and soft-spoken and can be foolishly naive for someone pushing a hundred - but these are the same reasons why Yennefer, in her youth, so readily dismissed her. Yennefer did not see for a long time the strength and courage and _talent_ beneath. More than that, Triss’s talents are those most similar to Ciri’s; she can cause an earthquake with a touch, Ciri can cause one with a scream. If anyone can tap into her power and work out how to yield it, it will be Triss Merigold.

“Let me guess,” Triss greets, without even turning from her table of potions, “You decided you needed my help after all.”

Yennefer smirks and strides towards her, placing a friendly hand on her back as she studies Triss’s work. “What are you working on?”

“Healing potions, elixirs, nothing you’d be interested in,” Triss says, turning in her arms to face her. The position puts them awfully close and Yennefer can’t resist trailing a finger down her cheek to tuck away a stray strand of hair. Triss’s eyes go wide and look up into hers with a shy smile. “But I have a feeling that maybe you’re interested in something else...”

Yennefer smiles and kisses her, soft and teasing. Triss sighs against her lips, a faint blush lighting her cheeks.

Triss is always welcoming and never complicated. They learned many decades ago that they could pass time together like this without it taking any more space in their hearts than they had already allotted. Sleeping with Triss, in some ways, felt like a natural addition to their tactile friendship.

Yennefer should probably not indulge this time though; she still has many things to prepare and only a couple of days to achieve them but she finds that she still craves a loving touch, even if she will no longer permit herself to receive them from Geralt. Perhaps Triss can temporarily heal the wound; she is a healer, after all.

“Perhaps I could be persuaded to stay for a day or two…” Yennefer considers, trailing her fingers seductively up Triss’s arm. “If, in return, you do something for me.”

“You want me to tutor Ciri,” Triss concludes, her eyes roaming languidly between Yennfer’s eyes and lips. “Yes, you mentioned.”

Yennefer moves her finger tantalisingly across her open lips and watches, mesmerised, as Triss’s eyes flutter closed at the sensation. “Yes. Meet us in Talgon in ten days time.”

Triss frowns in thought, her eyes still closed. “Talgon?”

Yennefer laughs and Triss’s eyes flutter open again at last, her bright brown eyes as easy to read as ever. It bodes well that even Triss has not heard of the sleepy northern fishing village they will be hiding out in. “Kovir. Downstream from Hengfors. At the mouth of River Braa.”

Triss pulls back with a concentrated frown, their lazy affections forgotten. “West from Kaer Morhen,” she infers. “You intend to set sail?”

“To Skellige.”

Triss inhales sharply with realisation. “You’re afraid Fringilla will track you if you portal.”

Yennefer nods. Triss had always been intuitive; able to understand people without resorting to mind-reading like Yennefer.

“Skellige,” Triss ponders. “That’s quite the journey.”

“And Nilfgaard are quite the pain in the ass. The further away we can take Cirilla, the better.”

Triss nods, her eyes darting as she processes the plan. “Talgon,” she murmurs, her hands returning to Yennefer’s waist. “That sounds like the middlests of nowheres.”

“Then I chose well,” Yennefer says, untying Triss’s cloak with a smirk. “So what do you say? Will you meet us there?”

“Hmm,” Triss says, contemplating while she trails kisses along Yennefer’s neck. “It will be awfully cold that far north,” she says with uncharacteristic flirtation, “you might have to keep my bed warm more often.”

Yennefer laughs and rewards Triss’s boldness with another kiss. “I would like that. However, I cannot guarantee you will be the only one to request my company.”

“Ah,” Triss says with clarity. “The witcher. You do not yet have the method to break the djinn’s spell, nor the strength to leave him.”

“Yes, and I’m starting to doubt I ever will,” Yennefer admits, feebly, because Triss is the only one permitted to know the truth. Yennefer distracts herself from the dire thought by drawing circles with her fingertip on Triss’s exposed shoulder. “On this occasion though, his presence is more of a necessity than a nicety.”

Triss smiles indulgently, as if she sees through Yennefer’s convolutions. “Is it now?” she jests and lands a playful bite on Yennefer’s neck. “But, yes,” she says with a sigh, “I accept. I will meet you in Talgon.”

Their eyes meet, just long enough for the agreement to cement in their minds, and then their thoughts turn to other things and Triss pulls her to bed.

-

Much to Triss’s chagrin, Yennefer only stays two days. She wants to return to Kaer Morhen to update Vesemir and make final plans but the journey takes time now that she’s careful to portal to a different isolated location each time.

When she arrives at the fortress this time it’s near midday and Ciri is running an assault course set up across the barracks. Vesemir usually leaves the practicals to Geralt, instead boring the poor girl with lore, but she assumes in Geralt's absence Ciri has persuaded the old witcher to let her run the course. Vesemir is watching with a concerned frown and shouting out orders - “watch your back!” and “use the rope!” - a teaching method that differs greatly from Geralt's, who would be running the course side-by-side with her.

Before they first arrived at Kaer Morhen, Yennefer assumed the princess wouldn’t care for the witchers’ keep or for this life at all, but as she watches Ciri leap across gulfs and climb over barrels with a steady sure grin, she knows they made the right decision in bringing her here.

Vesemir doesn’t take his eyes off her as he greets Yennefer. “Found the elusive white wolf?”

Yennefer smirks, remembering how ridiculous Geralt looked when she interrupted him mid-contract, napping on a roof, searching for phantoms. Elusive, indeed. “I did. He knows the plan.”

“Yet he's not with you?” he asks, breaking his gaze from Ciri to check for himself.

“No,” she says, biting down on her anger. “He said he had business to attend to in Novigrad.”

Vesemir hums and it sounds equally as disbelieving.

“I will fetch him tomorrow morn, then do what I can to erase our presence here. In the evening we should pull out that old tent of yours, keep Ciri’s scent contained, then we’ll head for the mountains at daybreak.”

“Hmm,” Vesemir says with a frown, considering the plan. But then his expression suddenly breaks - “Watch out for the-!”

Vesemir’s warning comes too late and Yennefer watches in horror as Ciri begins to fall the six feet between a gap in the battlements. On instinct, Yennefer reaches out with her magic to stay her.

Ciri hovers, two feet above the ground, and Yennefer watches the realisation cross her face and then her eyes widen and brighten as they see her saviour. “Yennefer!” Ciri exclaims.

Yennefer carefully lowers her and Ciri’s feet have barely touched the ground before she is sprinting over towards them.

“Do me a favour,” she whispers to Vesemir as Ciri climbs the wall towards them. “Don’t tell Geralt she nearly broke her leg on the course or he’ll never let her run it again.”

Vesemir smirks, likely coming to the same conclusion, before stepping away to give them some illusion of privacy under the guise of clearing up the course.

Ciri bounds straight into her arms and Yennefer’s heart soars as she pulls her in tight. She can’t help but catalogue the changes: her earthier scent, a gained inch of height, the boys' shirts starting to stretch around the chest, her hair shorter and tied in a loose ponytail in a way that reminds her painfully of Geralt. Her daughter, through and through. “Told you I’d be back,” she manages to breathe out while being squeezed tight.

Ciri loosens her grip with a carefree laugh. “It’s been nearly a _year_. Please tell me you’re back for good this time. Vesemir says we’re going West? To the sea?” she asks with a quick look over at her mentor.

“Yes,” Yennefer confirms. “Tomorrow I will return with Geralt and then we will head to Skellige.”

“I’ve always wanted to go there,” Ciri muses, stepping back to untie her ponytail. “Grandfather always said it was beautiful. Mousesack less so, but he was critical of nearly everything so I learned to take his opinion with a pinch of salt.” Her words are tinged with sadness but there is much less pain in her eyes than there used to be when she talked of her past in Cintra. Yennefer cannot help but feel relieved at the sight. She will heal, in time.

“Very wise,” she says. “The very same reason why I am wary of Geralt’s opinions.”

Ciri laughs, with tears in her eyes, and it’s like no time has passed at all. Ciri spontaneously barrels into Yennefer for another hug. “I missed you.”

Yennefer wraps her arms around her protectively and wishes it were always so easy to keep her safe. “I missed you too, my child.”

-

This time, when she portals to Geralt of Rivia she is met with a much more… interesting sight.

“The bard, _really_?” Yennefer can’t help but comment as she is greeted by the sight of the two of them, in bed, naked as the day they were born. She knew Jaskier desired Geralt. She also knew Geralt had not been loyal. But it had not occurred to her to put two and two together. It is such a rarity for her to be caught off-guard that Yennefer is genuinely stupefied by the sight.

It’s Geralt’s reaction that throws her more than anything; his defensiveness instead of his usual dismissive attitude to bed partners. Jealousy starts to writhe under her skin at the thought that this might not be such a casual arrangement after all.

Before she can so much as update him on their plans, Geralt ushers her outside like a misbehaved youth; banished to the hallway while she listens to their tender goodbye.

She closes her eyes against the onslaught of emotion and reminds herself that she does not fall prey to jealousy or other such childish bullshit. No, the thing she doesn’t like about this - other than the obvious inconvenience - is the _timing_ of it. They are meant to be protecting Ciri; that ought to be Geralt’s only concern. Why is it only now that he has taken him as a lover? And why has this entanglement suddenly taken precedence over Ciri’s safety?

After a minute of pacing the hallway and silently fuming, she realises exactly why. The only reason why Geralt has crawled to his little bard for affection is because he is no longer receiving it from her. It is, in essence, the same reason why she found comfort in Triss's arms just yesterday.

But with Geralt, the distraction is more severe. These things matter a great deal more to him than they do her. The man craves love like a desert does rain (though he’ll stubbornly deny to the end of his days) and she wonders, now that he’s found another source of affection, if he will no longer have any use for her at all. They will be bound together with no feeling between them but resentment.

Yennefer bites her lip as this unsavoury thought occurs to her. _Fuck him_ , she thinks with sudden fury. _Fuck him for doing this to me_. It was Geralt that made that wish. Geralt that bound them with no way of knowing what emotions were real and what were magic. Geralt that demanded, even after she had tried to say goodbye, that they go to Kaer Morhen, taking advantage of her motherly instincts towards Ciri to do so. And now, here he was, flaunting his lover in front of her as if she had never loved him at all.

If she is jealous, she reasons, it is because Jaskier is free to love him when she is not. If she is angry, she reasons, it is because he has endangered Ciri with his dalliances. If she hurts then… she hurts. But all wounds eventually heal.

-

It cannot be more than mere minutes before Geralt emerges but when those minutes are spent enraged and bitter, they stretch long. Geralt looks like he wants to say something but she doesn’t want to hear his excuses or platitudes so she conjures the portal out of lint and dust before he is able. Geralt has wasted enough time and the Nilfgaardians are approaching this city fast - they need to leave.

Geralt seems to sense her urgency and nods in agreement. “I hate portals,” he grumbles before she pushes him through the vortex.

-

They land, unfortunately, in the middle of a marsh three miles south from Kaer Morhen.

“Dammit,” Geralt swears, reaching for his sword. “Did it have to be a fucking swamp, Yen?”

Yennefer squints through the mist to see what has Geralt so rattled when she sees humanoid figures begin to emerge from the marshes. _Fuck_. Drowners. She presses her back against Geralt’s and prepares to cast. “I was in a hurry,” she defends. “Unlike you, apparently.”

Geralt grits his teeth and casts aard at an approaching drowner. “I told you I hadn’t been loyal-”

“Yes, and I naïvely assumed you meant a barmaid or a herbalist, _not_ your little travel companion,” she says, moving the water with a flick of her hand to push back another approaching monster. “He’s so _fragile_ ,” she can’t help but comment. “Aren’t you afraid of crushing the poor man? Or…” she huffs with laughter, sending another one flying. “Is that part of the appeal? How _delicate_ you must be with him. How _sweet_. Don’t you ever tire of a little gentle lovemaking?”

Geralt darts away and she hears a sword meet flesh followed by at weighty splash in the water. “Fuck you,” he growls harshly, stepping back towards her.

He's enraged but she can’t help but notice that he didn’t outright deny the accusations. Yennefer narrows her eyes and takes out her own anger on an approaching beast.

“Why the interrogation?” Geralt demands.

“I’m concerned,” she replies upon her return. “You’ve known this man-” she makes herself say even though, for all intents and purposes, that forty-year-old is still a _boy_ “-for two decades but only now do you indulge your curiosity?”

She hears more slashing sounds and then Geralt returns and she can feel his rapid inhales against her back. “It’s complicated.”

“Then explain it to me.”

“Why should I?” he snaps. She swears she can feel his heartbeat against her back, pounding louder and faster than their clash with the drowners could ever warrant. She tries to slip into his mind but between the battle and the lack of sight, she reaches no more than a brick wall of denial. “It’s none of your fucking business, Yen, you’ve made your position on that very clear.”

His slight hurts her, only because it’s true. She did push him away. She should not feel betrayed that he reached for another in the fall. Yennefer casts a fiery spell on a drowner and watches the beast slowly burn and wither before her. “Fine. Then let me give you some advice: He’s human, Geralt. He’ll grow old. Die. I would not advise getting more attached than you already are. ”

She feels Geralt turn against her back and she mirrors him so she can meet his fierce gaze. “Why are you doing this? If it were anyone else you wouldn’t care.”

“If it were anyone else I wouldn’t think that you’d be daft enough to fall in love with them,” she uses the word as a test but by the way his jaw clenches and passion flares in his eyes, she knows that 'love' might not be far off the mark. She breaks eye contact, unable to take the sight beyond the walls any longer. Deep within her, past her own many thick-layered protections, something begins to break.

Geralt steps closer, puts his hand under her chin and forces her to look him in the eye. “It’s not you or him, Yen,” he says sincerely, and _fuck_ , how she wants to believe him. Through his eyes she can see that it’s the truth but there’s no telling how long his love will last now he has another. “Nothing will change. I-”

Suddenly he jumps back, dropping her face to shoot igni at drowner they’d both been too preoccupied to locate. _Fuck_. How did she let herself get so distracted? She darts her eyes around the rest of the marshland as this one falls to the ground, but all seems well.

Geralt pants, regaining his breath as he turns back to her and emphasises, “I love you. Bard or no bard. Djinn or no djinn.”

Of all the things he could have said that was by far the stupidest. _Djinn or no djinn._ She has no idea how someone who has walked this world for over a century can be so damn naïve. Yennefer rolls her eyes and starts striding towards Kaer Morhen. They’ve had this argument too many times to repeat it, so she calls back - “Don’t even think of wasting any more time by stripping those monsters for parts.”

Out of the corner of her eye she sees Geralt grumpily drop the corpse he was holding.

-

After an hour of walking, the valley thins enough that they have to join the main road to Kaer Morhen. Yennefer only hopes the day-long drizzle with erase any evidence of their being here. The Nilfgaardians won’t have a tracker as good as Geralt with them but she doesn’t want to take any unnecessary risks. They are coming for Ciri and she will do everything in her power to keep her safe.

They spent most of the journey in a terse silence so it’s a relief when the outline of the castle finally appears on the horizon. Yennefer wonders how much of Geralt’s sour mood is due to the location rather their situation. There must be memories around every corner in this valley and if she recalls correctly there was a cloud hanging over him the last time they were here as well. She nearly opens her mouth to ask about the demons that clearly haunt him but closes it again, aware that she lost her right to ask such intimate questions the day she cast him aside.

The last thing she expects is for Geralt to volunteer this information himself. She hears his footsteps falter and when she turns to look he is gazing up at a distant tower where a scrap of fabric stirs ominously in the breeze like a war-torn flag. “A boy hanged himself from there,” Geralt states. “Few years before I arrived. Or so the story goes. He must only have been seven years old.” He shakes his head, dismissing the memory, and continues walking towards the castle. “No one that young should know that it is better to die than to live.”

“I don’t know,” Yennefer says pensively, watching the fabric struggle in its attempt to get free. “I did.”

Yennefer feels Geralt’s gaze on her but she decides they have shared enough for one day and keeps walking towards Kaer Morhen.

-

As soon as they step into the keep, Geralt sweeps Ciri into an embrace; his eyes closed, his arms tight. Yennefer has to look away at the sight. She had started to think of them as family, but if Geralt has Jaskier, and Ciri has Triss, then she no longer knows where she fits in the equation.

She swallows her fears and glances back just as Geralt holds Ciri at arm’s length and takes in all the minute changes that Yennefer had catalogued yesterday. “You cut your hair,” he comments.

“You _shaved_ ,” Ciri says in a much more teasing and disbelieving voice than Geralt had.

Geralt smirks in fond amusement and Yennefer aches at the sight. She remembers seeing that smile once after lovemaking only hours before discovering the djinn bound them. She remembers seeing it and letting the love she felt for him spread and fill the dark parts of her that had never even seen the light. _“You’re important to me,”_ he had said and she had _felt_ it.

Now she knows it to be a lie but the love still remains. Geralt was right: they were no more than the cursed fools in a bard’s tale of woe.

Yennefer doesn’t have time to bury the sentiment before Ciri is bounding over to her as well, pulling her in for a brief hug as Geralt and Vesemir greet each other with clasped hands.

“Where are you in her training programme?” she hears Geralt ask Vesemir. Yennefer trades an amused look with Ciri because _of course_ that is Geralt's first question.

Vesemir starts listing skills, only half of which Yennefer is at all familiar with, before Geralt interrupts - “Still on wooden swords?” He glances over at Ciri with a secretive smile because unbeknownst to Vesemir the two of them have already advanced to using dull blades in their duels.

“Aye,” Vesemir says, unaware of this exchange. “We’ll advance to steel upon her return in the Spring-”

“So,” Geralt says teasingly, pulling something out from his satchel, “Ciri wouldn’t be interested in…” He unsheathes it. The blade immediately catches Ciri’s attention; Yennefer feels her perk up and her eyes go wide. “This?” Geralt concludes, turning away from Vesemir (who is scowling something fierce) to brandish the elegant sword before Ciri.

The midday sun catches the glint of steel as Geralt turns it in his hands and the trick of the light makes the delicate blade look ethereal. _Where did he find such a thing?_ she wonders. It is definitely too small for an average sword, it looks almost comical in Geralt’s large hands, but it’s too well-crafted for a child’s training weapon, and too elongated in the elven style to have been intended for dwarves or halflings. It’s as if destiny herself crafted this blade for Ciri… and then Yennefer catches herself and curses silently in disbelief. Destiny would not care one whit for a girl and her blade even if it were at all real.

Ciri doesn’t have any such cynicism though. The sword is barely unsheathed before she is leaving Yennefer’s arms to inspect it.

Geralt smiles, pleased by her joyful reaction, as he lowers the blade and offers it to her.

“Geralt-” Vesemir tries to warn, and Yennefer is tempted to side with him - Geralt did not see Ciri nearly break her neck yesterday like they did - but Ciri is so enchanted by the blade and takes it with such reverence that in the end neither of them voice their concerns.

When Ciri has her fingers wrapped around the hilt, Geralt cautiously lets go, and watches with proud and eager eyes as she experimentally swings the blade. Ciri smiles, wide, and with bright eyes, and Yennefer cannot recall ever seeing her happier.

Overwhelmed, Yennefer looks to Geralt, who tears his eyes away from Ciri to meet her gaze. He smiles softly at her and she nods her head imperceptibly. _You did good_ , she thinks, loud enough to make it a whisper in his head.

Instead of scowling as he usually does on the occasion she thinks it prudent to slip into his mind, he returns the nod, and feels his familial love flow through the bond. It soothes away her concerns from this morning. They’ll always have this. If nothing else, they will always be her guardians.

-

The moment of peace doesn’t last. Soon they are back to butting heads as they hammer out the details of the evacuation plan. She trusts in Geralt’s judgement in terms of terrain and likely beastly encounters but what Geralt has in knowledge, he lacks in common bloody sense.

“No,” she says firmly as she strides after him across the wide, echoing, hall. “I will not risk portalling over the mountains. Fringilla will expect magic. I will not be so predictable.”

Geralt doesn’t even look back at her as he answers - “A week in the mountains is a long time. Trust me, I know. Ciri is not used to the cold climate, she’ll freeze-”

“Ciri will be _fine_ , Geralt. And if you remember, we’re taking her to _Skellige_. If she can’t deal with the cold now then we may as well abandon all hope here. She’s not as fragile as you think she is.”

Geralt turns around, fury in his eyes. “She’s not as strong as you think either. The fact that I actually care for her wellbeing does not mean that I think her ‘fragile’. I would not have entrusted her with a sword if I did not think her capable.”

“‘Capable’ has nothing to do with it. That's skill, not strength.”

Geralt growls. “I cannot believe I’m arguing semantics with you.”

He continues striding out the hall and into the towers beyond and Yennefer goes after him, more infuriated than ever. “And who are you to call _me_ uncaring when you’re the one who abandoned her for a damn contract! Where are you even going, Geralt?” she asks in frustration as she tries to keep up with his relentless pace.

He pushes through into the far Western tower before finally turning to face her. “Taking us away from prying eyes,” he growls and before she can form a rebuttal, he takes her lips firmly between his own.

Yennefer stumbles back with the force of the kiss, and Geralt goes with her, walking them backwards until Yennefer feels the castle wall against her back. She gasps at the cold and the desperate need for air, and _fuck_ , if her rage doesn’t already feel sated by a simple kiss.

“I assume that’s okay,” he adds as an afterthought.

Yennefer gives him the scathing look he deserves for his idiocy and in lieu of an answer waves her hand to shut the wooden door to the tower.

Geralt grins wolfishly and dives back in for another kiss. _Fuck_ she missed this. Geralt kisses like he’s drowning, like every kiss might be his last, and it never ceases to be intoxicating. She holds on for purchase as he devours her, reassured that his passion, at least, has not wavered since he took up with the bard. If he truly is a desert, she thinks, then he could lavish attention on the both of them for years and still have room for more.

Before she can form so much as a coherent thought, he’s falling to his knees and pushing aside her dress to put his desperate mouth to even better use. They’ve done this before but not since their pact at the gatehouse. He used to take his time, tease her to madness, but now his ministrations are as driven as the rest of their lovemaking - relentless and forceful - as if he thinks she won’t notice the lover’s desperation in the movements if only he moves fast enough. She does though. She notices the tender press of his thumb against her thigh, his pleading gasps against her clit, the way his tongue knows her with a telling intimacy. She wraps her fingers in his hair and pushes him closer until it drowns out his thoughts and his affection and she can’t feel anything but the building pleasure inside.

She comes with a shout - one loud enough that she takes a moment to be thankful Geralt dragged them into the deserted tower - and relaxes her grip on his hair. Geralt isn’t so eager to leave though, leaving parting kiss after parting kiss on her sensitive skin. She remembers the sting from the last time they did this and thoughtlessly reaches out to stroke Geralt’s smooth chin. “I like this,” she murmurs, appreciating the clean shave for what it is.

Geralt tenses and grunts and she’s about to pry into his mind to find out why when he volunteers the answer himself as he cautiously gets to his feet. “Jaskier’s doing,” he explains as he presses a kiss to her stomach.

Her gut flip-flops at the touch and she’s still stroking his cheek when she replies, “I’ll have to thank him,” and realises that she actually means it.

There is no jealousy left inside her. The djinn’s doing perhaps, or the post-coital bliss. Either way, she is thankful that Geralt has someone to pour his love into, even if it can’t be her. She cannot be so duplicitous as to both crave his love and to reject it. And, after all, his arrangement with the bard seems to have some perks.

She kisses him on the soft skin as he finally stands eye-to-eye with her.

“Hmm,” he murmurs, taking his lips to the sensitive skin at her neck. “He thought you might appreciate it.”

She chuckles, running her fingers through his hair again, this time to undo her damage. “Good boy.”

Geralt grunts, still preoccupied with her neck.

Yennefer sighs blissfully and lets him make his apologies the only way he knows how. She is more advanced in this realm however and attempts to actually apologise with words. “Jaskier is a good man,” she acknowledges. “He looks out for you. I’m glad you have someone to…” she winces internally at the word she wants to say. _Gods_ , how she wishes the word _love_ wasn’t ruined for her; she wishes she could say that word to Geralt and be sure she knew the meaning. “I’m sorry I mocked you for it,” she concludes uneasily.

“Don’t be sorry. It _is_ your business and I should have told you,” he says, in what might sound to an optimist like an apology. “And you are right to be worried.”

Yennefer studies his face and skims his mind trying to work out his meaning. Was she right to be worried because of Jaskier’s mortality? Or right to be worried because Geralt is falling in love with him? But Geralt’s mental fortifications are high for someone whose fervour is still very much evident.

Geralt sighs and finally abandons his ministrations on her neck to look at her. “This may surprise you, Yen, but when I dragged you into this tower it wasn't to talk about Jaskier.”

“Oh?” Yennefer asks coyly, pressing her thigh into Geralt’s erection and watching gleefully as he tenses at the unexpected touch. “What was it you wanted to do?”

He laughs - and, _fuck_ , how she loves that rare sound - and kisses her deeply once more. Her knees are already weak when he lifts her and enters her and fucks her soundly against the tower wall.

-

Long afterwards, when Geralt is heading for the door, Yennefer is struck by sudden morality and calls back to him. He turns around expectantly and she sighs, already dreading this conversation but knowing she would be a hypocrite if she didn’t have it. “I found Ciri a tutor.”

“You have?” he asks, eagerly striding back towards her. “Who?” and then he seems to realise the question he should have been asking and changes tack - “Wait. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because…” Yennefer starts, wondering how to phrase this. “It’s complicated,” she says, falling back on the word that Geralt had used in his own defence, “complicated in the same way you and your bard may be… _complicated_.”

Geralt closes his eyes and clenches his jaw. “You’re sleeping with Ciri’s tutor?” he asks with disbelief.

“To be fair, I was sleeping with her approximately two decades before Ciri was born.”

He raises an eyebrow at the pronoun and her excuses but nothing else, and she realises she’ll have to fill in the blanks for him as he’s never been particularly observant of personal relationships. Hell, if he didn’t realise Jaskier desired him all these years then the odds of him picking up on her own affairs were minimal at best.

“Triss Merigold,” she states. “I believe you are already acquainted.”

Geralt looks away in amused disbelief, a bitter laugh on his lips. “Yeah,” he says, looking back to her. “I know her.” He shakes his head and raises an eyebrow when he looks up again. “Two decades, really?”

“It’s not as serious as you’re imagining,” Yennefer explains. “We keep each other company sometimes, that’s all, but you have a right to know.”

Geralt nods his head and takes the admission for the repentance it is. “Thank you for telling me. And, uh, Triss… is a good call.”

“You think?” she asks, genuinely interested in his approval.

He furrows his brow, seriously contemplating it, before nodding again, more firmly. “Yes. I think you chose well.”

Yennefer, genuinely taken aback by an actual compliment from him, especially concerning their ward that they have nought but fought over since the start, struggles to control her surprise. She can’t help but wonder if he also speaks of her personal investment. She would like to think so. “Thank you, Geralt.”

He nods, and looks away again, clearly having dealt with enough emotions for the day.

“Triss will meet us in Talgon,” she concludes. “You can make her acquaintance again then.”

“I look forward to it,” he says sincerely, and Yennefer wants deeply to believe it.

-

Clearing the castle of evidence is a chore without magic. A single blonde hair could give them away so they spend the afternoon and evening sweeping, and cleaning, and inspecting for evidence that a princess ever came here. They wash the clothes and anything else Ciri has touched and dry them in the late afternoon sun until they only smell of soap and then they pack them away in a musty chest in a far corner of the fortress.

The task is not as dull as it ought to be given Geralt and Ciri’s whim to start playfighting with the brooms and other such nonsense; time passes a lot faster with the sound of children’s laughter and the oddly attractive sight of Geralt undertaking domestic chores. They’re careful, of course, that Ciri doesn’t make matters worse; as soon as it looks like her head-to-toe garb might slip an inch, Yennefer brings a halt to their games.

-

Eventually, they sweep themselves out of the castle and into the grassy verge in the inner keep. Vesemir has scoured the keep and the walls and now pegs down the tent that they will use tonight and take into the mountains tomorrow.

They huddle under blankets as the sun sets - Ciri under the only one she is permitted to take with her - and drink and play and laugh around the fire, watching any evidence of Ciri’s presence burn before them. In the morning, Yennefer will use the smallest whisper of magic to scatter the ashes and all the evidence will have dissipated.

-

By deep nightfall, a subdued silence has fallen upon them, thoughts laden with the journey ahead of them. Vesemir and Geralt are discussing in a low murmur the monsters they were likely to encounter and the tactics for disposing of them. Sensing Ciri’s increasing anxiety, Yennefer sidles closer and distracts her with talk of the stars. Together, they look up and name constellations and if they don’t know the stories, they theorise what they may be.

“It’s a lute,” she says, pointing to the stars over the westward mountains. “Don’t you see it?”

Yennefer tilts her head and although she still doesn’t see it says that she does. “Why do you think it got caught in the stars?”

Ciri frowns in thought and something curious passes through her eyes that wasn’t there before. “It used to belong to a bard. Now it’s broken and discarded, put in the stars so we can see it.”

It’s then that Yennefer realises Geralt has stalled in his speech, listening in to the young girl. “Why is it broken?” he asks, his voice cracking with telling emotion.

Yennefer meets his gaze over the fire and gives him an imperceptible shake of the head - _don’t read into this_ , she begs him. It was childish nonsense; a game. Just because Ciri has prophetic talents doesn’t mean everything she says should be taken as gospel.

Ciri frowns and then looks back to the stars, seeing whatever she sees. “I don’t know,” she admits after a while, her words tinged with disappointment. “The story’s hidden from me.”

“I’m sure it’s an inconsequential tale,” Yennefer cuts in before Geralt can so much as open his mouth. “Bards are drunks, they break their instruments all the time.”

Ciri laughs and moves onto the next constellation but Yennefer doesn’t miss Geralt’s murmur as he gazes into the stars. “Not Jaskier,” he says, so quietly she would not have heard it had she not seen his lips form the words. _Not Jaskier_.

-

The matter clearly still weighs on Geralt’s mind as they lie either side of the sleeping Ciri, staring at the thin, bellowing fabric of the tent walls around them.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Yennefer whispers.

“What if he’s not?” he asks, turning his head towards her. “There are things I haven’t…” he swallows as if the thought brings him great pain. Is he thinking of declarations or apologies? Both? She wants to know but she won’t pry into a matter so private.

Yennefer can see his anguish over the rise and fall of Ciri’s chest. Earlier, she had mocked him for falling for a human; she had jeered at his imminent mortality only that morning, but now she can’t imagine any such cruelty. She sighs and reaches over Ciri to squeeze his hand in sympathy. “Then you’ll find him. You always do.”

He breathes out a sigh. “People linked by destiny will always find each other,” he murmurs. The words seem archaic and familiar, like a quote from the distant past.

She looks away, unable to bear the sorrow in his eyes. “You believe it was destiny that brought you together?”

Geralt furrows his brow and breaks their gaze to look once more back at the fabric bellowing in the breeze. “Let’s just say the idea doesn’t seem as far-fetched as it used to be.”

Yennefer muses on this as she tries to see this from his point of view - his Child Surprise, his djinn wish… Jaskier was there every time. It could be read as fate, or, at least, enough of a reason for him to find him again. She may consider destiny to be bullshit but if it brings Geralt a little peace in this moment then she will not be so cruel as to take it away from him.

Yennefer squeezes his hand and gives into his imploring amber eyes. “Then, tonight, my white wolf, we shall believe.”

He smiles back at her, expression weak and eyes watery, but nonetheless impassioned with genuine love. Outside, the wind howls and their arduous journey awaits, but tonight, Geralt's eyes close, lulled to sleep by the hope of destiny. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: this chapter gets into the ethics of being djinn-bound so there are rape and slavery analogies within. nothing overly explicit but I didn't want anyone walking into it unaware. 
> 
> alright, on with your angst -

The trek over the mountains is long and arduous and well outside of Yennefer’s expertise. Within an hour, she is bored. Before midday, her feet ache something fierce. And by nightfall, when they have surpassed the lake, fought multiple beasts, and climbed the steep path up the mountain, she is cold and pissed off and utterly exhausted.

Ciri fairs better but even her mood has soured by the time they set up camp. Yennefer’s itch to use magic grows strong as soon as they retire. How easy it would be to conjure a fire without firewood. How easy it would be to cast their shelter into existence instead of constructing it piece by piece. But she knows the magnitude of Fringilla’s power and she won’t risk anything that will draw attention to them. So, she prepares dinner, and Ciri collects firewood, and Geralt builds the tent, and she wistfully wonders how warm and sated she would be right now had she never met the two of them. She briefly entertains a fantasy of relaxing in a hot bath with a glass of red wine and an intriguing novel in a lord’s manor in the gentle lands of Toussaint, but the fantasy is hollow for reasons she does not want to comprehend.

Instead, Yennefer huddles on a damp broken log in a thick, uncomely, black coat, and attempts to make them something vaguely edible by the light of a single flickering torch.

“You look like you’ve never skinned a rabbit before,” Geralt comments over her shoulder.

“That would be because I haven’t,” she retorts, still attempting to get the knife under the animal’s skin. “Believe it or not, hunting game was not high on the list of priorities at Aretuza.”

Geralt holds out his hand expectantly. Yennefer isn’t usually one to accept defeat so readily but they will undoubtedly eat sooner if she permits his assistance and she is awfully hungry. She hands over the rabbit and the knife and she watches as he expertly skins the animal with a few well-placed cuts.

Before she can protest, he continues with the preparation, cutting the meat into squares and skewering them, ready to cook. “I’ve positioned the tent the best I can,” he says between cuts, “but the winds are fierce and finding shelter at this altitude is difficult. When Ciri has returned, I will search for some stones to weigh down the pegs, make sure we don’t blow away in the night.”

“Very well,” Yennefer says. The only thing they’ve discussed all day are practicalities in this same monotone voice, like they’re both attempting to put on a facade of indifference for Ciri. The conversation is so dull she’s starting to miss their heated arguments and terse silences. At least then, she knew he cared. This indifference feels more like a punishment than a compromise and she wonders if it was her uncharacteristic sympathy last night - her hand curled atop of his - that spooked him into apathy today. Then again, perhaps Geralt is just being _Geralt._

He makes to leave not one second after the meat is prepared. “I’ll help Ciri with the firewood.”

“Great,” Yennefer says bitterly, starting on the potatoes with more vigour than necessary.

-

That night Geralt insists on “standing watch” as they sleep, an absurd concept considering that the three of them are the only beings daft enough to endure this intolerable altitude. The man’s evidently after an excuse to avoid her and she is more than happy to oblige his punitive whims.

Inside the warmth of the tent, Yennefer envelops Ciri in blankets until eventually her shivers die down and some colour returns to her cheeks. Yennefer shivers in exchange but she is much more well versed at hiding these things.

Yennefer lies awake, listening to the howling winds and stretching her mind out until she can feel Geralt’s mind, just as cold and barren as the land around them.

“Are you and Geralt in a fight?”

Ciri’s abrupt question breaks her from her meditation. She supposes she ought to have expected an interrogation at some point given Ciri’s intuitive and inquisitive nature.

Yennefer sighs. “Truthfully, I do not know.” Yennefer turns to look at Ciri and for a moment is transported back to her youth, trading secrets with the girls in her class, late at night, in the depths of Aretuza. Secrets are less daunting in the darkness.

“I don’t understand you both,” Ciri says, huddling under the blankets as a shiver passes through her. “I never know what to make of it.”

 _That makes two of us,_ Yennefer thinks with a sad smile. “It’s complicated.”

“Because of the djinn that binds you?”

Yennefer sighs and almost regrets telling the girl about the djinn on the road to Kaer Morhen. It hadn’t been on purpose. Geralt and her were arguing about something or other and she had accused him of manipulating her and he said that was rich given that she had literally once used him “like a puppet” to do her “bidding” and, well, from there came the djinn.

“Yes,” Yennefer concludes, “And more besides.”

“Do you still love him?” she asks innocently.

Yennefer grits her teeth and reminds herself that the girl is barely fourteen and permitted to be naïve on occasion.

“Love is not simple,” she explains laboriously. “Either as a concept, or as a descriptor. Geralt is… in my heart,” she says, the somatic word as close to the truth as she can speak. “And I feel that. Strongly.” She closes her eyes as a wave of emotion passes through her at the mere acknowledgement of its presence. “But he did not earn his place. He used the djinn to force his way in. Every time I look at him, I feel the djinn’s pull and I feel sick.” She swallows as nausea passes through her, pulling up memories old and distant. “I never wanted to feel used again,” she whispers under the cover of dark, praying that Geralt does not eavesdrop on her confessions. “But he did so. Thoughtlessly and without apology.”

Ciri seems to ponder this, chewing her lip in thought. She looks sad, as if she already knows what it is for men to take what is not theirs. “He never apologised?”

Yennefer frowns, trying to form the words to explain Geralt’s particular brand of carnal communication in a way that wouldn’t be inappropriate for a child. Yennefer sees it in his eyes, she feels it in his kiss… but the man wouldn’t know how to apologise even if it were a physical monster he had to face. It’s not in his nature. He’s too proud. He will bullishly believe that he made the wish to save her life until the end of his days, not caring for the fact that she would rather have died than be trapped in emotional servitude. All in all, the answer as to whether or not the man has actually apologised is rather simple. “No.”

“Do you know what he wished for?”

“No.”

A beat. “Then how do you know he did what you accuse him of?”

“Ciri-”

“He might not have realised the effects-”

“He’s a witcher, Ciri. He knew what he was doing-”

“Djinns are tricksters! He might not have known until you did-”

“He knew perfectly well what he wished for and kept it from me because he is an exploitative, selfish-”

“He loves you!”

“Yes!” Yennefer snaps. “Because he is a weak fool.”

It was loud. Too loud. Yennefer closes her eyes with regret, knowing undoubtedly that that line, at least, will have reached Geralt’s ears.

“I will not give into the djinn as he has,” she surmises, back down to a whisper. “I will not let that beast take more of me than I am willing to give. And if Geralt resents me for it, than so be it. If he cared as much as he claimed then he would find a way to break the damn curse and free us both. But, he has not. He wants to keep me shackled to his side, even as...” she closes her eyes as she remembers her most recent anguish. “Even as he follows other pursuits.”

Ciri frowns and Yennefer realises her slip of the tongue. “He has other pursuits?”

Yennefer sighs and rolls onto her side, putting an end to the conversation. “A trifling matter,” she dismisses, praying that it’s true. “Forget I said anything.”

Eventually, Ciri’s breaths even out into slumber but her accusations haunt Yennefer well into the night. Ciri was right - Yennefer has no proof that Gerat intended her entrapment. She only knows what she knows from experience - that men can, and _will_ , abuse their power. But the rules she usually applies to all men are not so easily applied to the witcher. He has defied her expectations time and time again. Would it be so inconceivable for her to be wrong on this account too? Doubts start creeping in at the edges of her righteous anger. Perhaps it was a mistake. Perhaps he does regret it. Perhaps both these things are true and he just doesn’t know how to ask for forgiveness.

Or, perhaps, she is excusing his behaviour because she wants so desperately to love him on her own terms.

She falls asleep, cold and conflicted, until she is awoken sometime later by a scream -

-

Yennefer jolts awake, swiftly searching her surroundings to locate the source of the noise. She doesn’t have to look far. Ciri is sat up beside her, shaking, pale as the snow outside, cold sweat dripping down her clammy skin.

Geralt has entered the tent before Yennefer can so much as reach out to touch her, his eyes ablaze with apprehension as he falls on his knees beside her. “Ciri!”

Ciri reaches out for him and he willingly pulls her into his arms, rocking her slightly as she begins to sob. Yennefer’s heart aches at the sight, wishing she could ease her distress. She places a comforting hand on Ciri’s back and can feel the vibrations as sobs wrack her body.

“Did you see them again?” Geralt asks, and Yennefer doesn’t need to ask clarifying questions. Vesemir said the girl saw the Nilfgaardians nearly every night now; that her dreams were steadily getting worse.

Shakily, Ciri nods against his chest. “They were…” she trails off, staring at her trembling hands.

Yennefer reaches out to cover her hands with her own. “What were they doing?” she asks softly.

Geralt turns his head to glare at her and Yennefer clenches her jaw in annoyance. Of course when the girl’s prophecies concerned Jaskier he wanted to wring her for information but now Yennefer’s the one asking for details it’s somehow inappropriate. Damn hypocrite.

Ciri shudders on an inhale and Yennefer rubs comforting circles on her back until she can speak. Ciri’s still staring at her hands as if they are alien to her. “Beating a man. I felt their… anger. Their hatred.” She shudders again, tucking herself further into Geralt’s side. “They’re on their way to find me. Getting closer. I-” she breaks off with another distressed cry.

Geralt rocks her with soothing sounds and strokes her hair, just like you would a small child. Yennefer is indignant on Ciri’s behalf - for she is _not_ a small child and in her right mind she would be mortified to be cooed over thus - but she also feels similarly anguished at the sight and her instinct, no matter how irrational, is to coddle her exactly as Geralt is doing.

“It’s okay,” Geralt is repeating, even though they know it is not “okay”; the demons that haunt her dreams are very much real. What he’s really saying is: _It’s okay because I will protect you_.

He must mean it too, because Geralt doesn’t spend another night apart from her.

-

Geralt is less frosty towards Yennefer the next day, which is lovely, but does mean he tries to make amends with light conversation as they hike through the mountains, an endeavour that is particularly painful given Geralt’s renowned taciturnity.

After a couple of false starts, Yennefer puts him out of his misery and asks about his contract in Cunny. A safe topic, she thinks, something he won’t mind talking about, something educational for Ciri, and something far, far, away from her problems. Or so she thinks.

“Was it a vampire in the end?” she asks.

“Hmm?”

“In Cunny. You said you were on the hunt for a vampire.”

Ciri perks up at the mention of the beast. “Vesemir made me study vampires last month,” Ciri says eagerly and probably regrets admitting as much when Geralt immediately starts quizzing her on identifying and battling different vamperic species. “So which was it?” Ciri is eventually permitted to ask.

“None of the above,” Geralt growls. “It was a man using a very crafty potion which I now possess.”

“And this potion gave him the abilities of a higher vampire?”

“Yes, and no,” Geralt says with thought. “It provides the illusion of speed and camouflage but for a very limited time. Mere minutes. It appears to work by effectively speeding time on your end while slowing it on theirs.”

“That’s magic,” Yennefer infers. “Has to be.”

“Frankly, I do not know what it is or how it works. Although, in retrospect, I suppose it did taste like magic.”

Yennefer’s steps falter at the sheer stupidity of that sentence.

Geralt looks back at her owlishly. “What?”

“You drank it?”

Geralt shrugs.

“You drank it without knowing where it came from, or what was in it, or what its effects even were?” Yennefer asks in disbelief, disconcerted by how her heart seems to have picked up pace.

Geralt sighs. “I’m a witcher, Yen. There’s not much that can kill me. And I saw a human drink it and live.”

“Oh, an infallible method for detecting poison if I’ve ever heard of one,” Yennefer drips sarcastically, knowing as well as Geralt does that human and witcher physiology differed significantly. “Please tell me you at least had Jaskier on hand in case you suddenly dropped dead from a mysterious poison.”

He shrugs and keeps walking. “No, I drank it before I left for Novigrad. Your concern is touching though. Really.”

Yennefer scowls after him but obligingly keeps pace. Why did she think they could get through a single conversation, however dull, without raising their voices? She is about to retort when Ciri punches the wind out of her sails with a simple but devastating question -

“Who’s Jaskier?”

Yennefer’s steps falter again but she recovers quickly, striding far enough ahead that she doesn’t have to hear the way Geralt’s voice changes when he says the bard’s name.

-

All in all, they have been fairly lucky in terms of monsterly encounters. Geralt had to negotiate with a handful of ice trolls by a narrow pass, there were some drowners by the lake, and foglets in the valleys, and although they’ve seen a forktail in the skies it has kept its distance. It’s mainly been wolves that Geralt has had to dispatch and even he seems to be letting his guard down, so much so, that when they are crossing a plateau they don’t notice a pack of ghouls closing in on them until Ciri releases her power in an almighty scream that sends the mountain shaking in a fearsome manner.

“Landslide,” Yennefer whispers, sensing the earth moving at the same time Geralt draws his sword and states, “Ghouls.”

They look to each other as the rocks start tumbling and the pack of ghouls start pressing in. Both. They can deal with both.

Ciri runs back to them, drawing her lithe sword, and the three of them stand with their backs to each other, facing off the impending monsters.

“Why are they here?” Ciri asks, her voice pitched high with terror. “I thought ghouls only visited graveyards and battlefields.”

“They do,” Geralt says in a growl, kicking something metal with his foot.

The snow. Yennefer had thought the ground felt uneven for a plateau. It was. She digs her boot an inch into the snow only to feel something soft and fleshy beneath. They were standing on a gravesite and didn’t even know it. She senses it now. The death around them. Geralt's nostrils flare as if he can smell the frozen rotting flesh beneath their feet. 

“Something terrible happened here,” Ciri surmises gravely. 

As Geralt leaps at the first monster, Yennefer feels the major shift in the land and lifts her hands to try to keep the falling rocks at bay. It’s strong. She groans in exertion as she does her best to hold back the mountain. Geralt is slashing and slashing and the monsters keep coming. “I don’t know how long I’ll be able to hold it!” she warns him across the pre-emptive creaking of rocks and ice.

She looks helplessly on as more ghouls approach. He’s surrounded. But he doesn’t relent. An alghoul releases a scream to stun him, causing his movements to become sluggish and slow. Yennefer watches in horror as another beast with jaws wide open and its barbs raised leaps directly towards him. “Geralt! Look out!”

He doesn’t reach it in time. But another sword does.

 _Ciri_.

Yennefer watches in pride and fear as Ciri leaps into the fray. The mountain slips a little in her grasp in surprise. Her heart is stuck in her throat watching Ciri take on the half dozen creatures surrounding Geralt.

But then, Geralt shakes the stun and pushes away a ghoul with aard just as it was about to pounce on Ciri.

The two of them wordlessly synchronise perfectly together, like this is no more than a training exercise, as they cut down opponents left and right. She’s so proud, and so, so, exhausted.

She strains again as she tries to hold back the mountain. An entire rockface wants to fall. “I can’t-” she gasps, and it must sound bad enough that Geralt pauses his movements to look over at her. “I can’t hold it.”

He nods grimly; love and worry and determination all in his eyes as he grabs Ciri’s arm and runs towards their only exit. The ghouls limp after them and Yennefer knows she must go too, at least head to the outskirts of the rockfall where she will be able to cast a shield to protect herself from the falling debris.

Yennefer closes her eyes, reaches out in her mind to connect with Geralt, just briefly enough to check that he is safe, and if a little of her fear and feeling comes through the bond then she is not strong enough to stop it. And, then, with one last glimpse at his love, she lets the mountain fall.

She sprints. Chaos erupts - falling dust, screaming ghouls, claws digging into her calf. She trips, unknowing how far she made it as she uses the last of her strength to cast a barrier around her.

 _Let them be safe,_ is the last thought she has before her strength leaves her.

-

Yennefer wakes to a familiar voice and gentle but calloused hands on her cheeks. The man’s voice sounds urgent and panicked and she wonders what is wrong, what could possibly cause this man - who she knows to be strong and resilient - behave in this way.

When she cracks open her eyes and sees those piercing, amber, eyes above her, she wonders how she could have ever forgotten, even for the briefest moments, who that voice belonged to. The overwhelming affection behind his eyes would make her breathless even if she could breathe. “Geralt-” she manages to wheeze. There’s something pressing on her chest. She can barely see past Geralt’s face. Everything behind him is grey and blurred. “Where’s Ciri?”

A curious expression - relief? - crosses his face, if only she had the strength to read it fully. “Fine. Searching for our belongings.”

The landslide. It comes back to her in a sudden rush, like a gust of wind through an open door. The grey isn’t in her head, she realises, it’s the remnants of the fall; fragments of snow and rock clogging the atmosphere. The weight on her chest isn’t metaphorical; it’s a hefty rock that she is trapped beneath. _Fuck_.

“Lie still,” Geralt commands, leaning away to inspect the damage. “Your barrier held until the last moment. The rock didn’t fall from high.”

It was large though. If she doesn’t have broken ribs, then they’re certainly going to be very bruised.

Geralt looks back at her with a concerned frown as if he’s just had the very same thought. He doesn’t even try to hide his concern from her; she doesn’t need her magic to see the love outpouring from him. _Foolish and weak_ , she had told Ciri, but now she looks at him, earnest and caring, and she knows he is no such thing. Why does he still choose to love her and not bury it deep as she has done? How can he possibly find this easier than the alternative? And, why, does her traitorous heart insist on betraying her every time she sees that look in his eyes?

Geralt bites his lip - the only nervous tick she’s ever seen on him - as he bends to lift the rock. He could use aard, she knows, and likely only doesn’t because he will feel more control over the act if he uses his hands and removes the obstruction from her as gently as possible. It’s sweet. Sweet, but unnecessary.

Yennefer grimaces as the weight is lifted; the respite somehow more painful than the pressure that came before. Geralt’s immediately back by her side when the task is done, his hands hovering protectively over her chest as she takes a few experimental breaths. To their relief, the breaths come easy.

Geralt, seemingly overwhelmed with relief, must temporarily forget their pact of indifference as he cradles her head in his hands and rests his forehead against hers. She can feel his shaky breath against her open lips. His eyes are closed and this lack of sight into the depth of his feelings is likely what gives her the strength to return his loving gesture; fingers trailing into his loose hair and pressing their lips together, so briefly, it can barely be considered a kiss.

His breath skitters as they part, his eyes open and she sees more than she ever has before, falls deeper than she ever has, and this time there is no pressure that halts her breath, rather something else besides. He loves her _defiantly_. “ _Bard or no bard_ ,” he had said, “ _Djinn or no djinn_ ,” and she sees how earnestly he believes that.

But then, his defences come back down, as forceful as a fortress closing its gates to unwelcome guests, and he is helping her to standing.

-

Eventually, they leave the mountains and traverse the plains below. They are perhaps only halfway through their journey and Yennefer is already aching for a hot bath at the other end.

Fringilla and her men should have reached Vesemir at Kaer Morhen by now but without using her sight and while Ciri’s dreams remain passive, she doesn’t know anything for certain, and it is difficult to dissuade fear to grow where knowledge ought to reside.

It is warmer in the valley though and now they’re through the worst of it, Geralt seems to content to lessen their pace and set camp before sunset rather than after it. Either that, or he senses her discomfort from battle and has slowed their pace to match. Geralt would be too wise to say such a thing, and Yennefer too proud to admit it, but she is grateful for the slow pace nonetheless.

After dinner, Yennefer takes herself away to the outskirts of their camp, to meditate and try to heal the wounds within her with as little magic as possible. She worries that even as deep into the mountains as they were and as impossible as it would be to see the landslide from Kaer Morhen that Fringilla would still have sensed the great amount of magic and become suspicious of their whereabouts. Therefore the only healing spells she has been able to achieve are small little increments every time they rest.

She is meticulously working on her bruised rib when she catches her name -

“-told me about the djinn.”

Yennefer closes her eyes and breathes out her frustration, trying to focus once more on her task. Why couldn’t Ciri leave it well enough alone?

She hears Geralt grunt in assent. “So I heard.”

Yennefer winces. He had heard their argument last night, after all.

“What of it?” he asks.

There’s a silence and a crackle of firewood and Yennefer is sorely tempted to abandon her bruised ribs to discover what silent conversation is happening between them.

“What did you wish for?”

“Ciri-”

“I might meet a djinn one day,” Ciri reasons, “I might need to know how to best it.” Yennefer bites down a smile at overhearing Ciri’s cunning tactics; she has already learned the best way to extract information from the reticent witcher is by preying on his protective instincts. If it were any other topic of conversation, Yennefer might be proud.

Geralt sighs in defeat. “The djinn was going to kill her, I had no doubt about it. I had thought of a dozen wishes that might have worked and a dozen ways the djinn might have misinterpreted them. Djinns are tricksters. You have to be careful. More than careful. If you ever meet one, promise me you will turn and run the other way,” he advises Ciri sincerely. “After all the trouble it wrought me, I would hardly endorse it, no matter how desperate you are for answers.”

“I promise. Just tell me what you said. Please?”

Yennefer strains her ears to hear Geralt’s low grumble of an admission. “I wished for our fates to be bound together.”

Yennefer clenches her fist and her jaw, filled with a sudden, burning rage - _of course he knew, of course he_ -

“Djinns cannot kill their master.”

She hesitates; her fist unfurling.

“I don’t understand,” Ciri says, unknowingly speaking Yennefer’s thoughts.

Geralt sighs once more and it sounds so forlorn, swept up in the evening’s breeze. “Djinns cannot kill their master. It is the one rule they abide by. If I asked for any number of other things - to save her, for the djinn to leave, for her to have a child as she so desperately wanted - I would have wagered its trickery against her life. Instead, I wished for the only thing that I thought foolproof. If I bound our fates together, the djinn would not be able to kill Yennefer without also killing me…”

“An act it was prohibited from doing,” Ciri infers, her voice laced with admiration.

“Hmm,” Geralt assents. “I admit, in the spur of the moment, I did not think through the consequences. At worst I thought that our lifespans might be linked, that I might inadvertently cause her an untimely death but…”

“Djinns are tricksters.”

Geralt huffs a laugh. “Indeed. It seems the djinn took 'fate' not to mean death but to mean life. Our _lives_ were entwined together from that day, fate making us cross paths time and time again, until, a year before we met you, we could no longer deny it.”

“You knew?” It’s only until the words are out her mouth and Yennefer realises they belong to her. She turns to face them; watches Geralt’s startled expression in the flickering firelight, open but cautious. "When?"

Ciri looks between them with hope in her eyes, silent and observant.

“I… did not truly know until that day on King Niedamir's mountain.”

“ _Geralt-_ ” she warns, sensing the lie.

“It’s true I suspected before then, but I did not-” he breaks off with a grimace. “Could not believe it to be true.”

“Because if it were-”

“I would have to accept its part in our story, and I was not ready to do so.”

Yennefer has to look away as her face contorts in uncontrolled anguish. He used her. Just as she suspected. He knew they were bound together against their will and yet he still kissed her, and bedded her, and told her sweet little lies.

“I was a coward,” he says, declaration bold enough to cut through the desolate night air. “Who did not want to lose you. I can only apologise for my past actions. I ought to have told you sooner and directly.”

An apology she never thought she would receive. It does not heal her wounds as she supposed it might. It barely even balms the surface of them. She shakes her head, trying to blink back the tears that threatened to fall. The years spent pushing this aside all for nought. “You did all those things,” she whispers in a broken voice, trying to push away the memory of his warm smile and gentle fingers and loving words, “while knowing the love you felt wasn’t real.”

“ _No_ ,” he says, so loud she fears this will only result in another quarrel, before his voice drops back down to a confessional whisper. “I refuse to accept that what I feel can be falsified. However powerful the magic that binds us, I cannot believe that it…” his voice cracks and wavers, his gaze turns towards the horizon before turning back solely into her eyes. “Even if our feelings are somehow fabricated as you believe, I _feel_ it as real, and to me, that makes it real. I know you deny your feelings because you need to protect yourself. I understand that, and, if you so wish, I will play along with your charade until the end of my days. But know that…” his words falter, his face twisted in agony. “That I-”

“Please don’t say it,” she pleads, a tear slipping from her eye. “I know. I see it. Every time you look at me, I feel it, but please don’t say it.”

He breaks their gaze with a closed expression and lowers his head to the ground. He loves her, and will love her until his dying breath. She knows this, but she also knows that for as long as she rejects his love, speaking his affections without an answering refrain will only bring them pain.

She wonders if witchers can cry. The anguish that radiates from him is so profound that she doesn’t know how else a man would carry such a burden.

At some point, Ciri must have felt it prudent to leave the conversation. There is only the two of them, staring at the void between them where a fire burns through the night.

“Help me find the djinn,” she offers. It’s an olive branch; a chance for him to make things right between them. She is rewarded with bright, curious, eyes. “Break the spell with me.”

He is beginning to shake his head. He had just warned Ciri about the dangers. He doesn’t want to risk negotiating with a djinn again.

Yennefer feels her frustration with him rise once more. “It’s the only way,” she insists. “The only way we will ever know if this is fabricated or…”

Geralt closes his eyes in pain at the word she is not saying. _Real_ , this could be real, if only he would let her -

“Very well,” he says firmly. “If it will put your mind at rest, I shall do it.” His eyes loiter on hers as if there’s something more he wants to say and she feels the emotions simmering in his mind not yet translated into thoughts. He is pondering the outcomes. Wondering if she will ever forgive him, even if the spell breaks and their feelings still remain… will she ever truly love him after what he has done?

 _I love you already, you fool,_ she thinks viciously, and only afterwards realises that a wisp of magic escaped with the thought. So desperate she was for Geralt to hear her that he _heard_ her.

Her eyes snap open, locking onto Geralt’s. He heard. Her cheeks flush, embarrassed and regretful; she has not made such a mistake since her youth. Why is it that Geralt can somehow break past all her walls? There’s a soft smile on his lips and hope in his eyes and she wants to indulge more than ever before, her heart squeezing painfully at the sight, longing for her to take to his arms.

 _I love you, I love you, I_ -

She gasps softly, overwhelmed as the dam breaks inside her. “Despite,” she bites out a clarification, “my best intentions.”

He smiles crookedly, amused, and still tinged with sadness. “Then why fight it?”

“Because…” she grits out, closing her eyes and desperately trying to remember why she does not give in to this feeling as Geralt does. She thought she was the strong one. That by denying her feelings, she was saving them both. But now she feels the love with the full sweeping force she has denied, her walls practically washed to sea, she realises that she had it backward all along. It was always harder to accept love than deny it. Fabricated or not. Real or not. He had accepted it. That’s what Geralt had been trying to say all along in his own, terrible, way. He was a fool, yes, but not a weak-minded one. It was her who had been weak for rejecting it. “Because I…”

She opens her eyes to find Geralt kneeling before her, having traversed the void between them while the rapids had been raging. He reaches out with his hand, cups her cheek, in the same way he had done only that morning after the landslide, and _fuck_ , if it doesn’t feel like a landslide of a different kind now. She remembers thinking then, as he lifted the weight from her, how the relief was somehow more painful than the pressure before.

She rests her forehead against his, finally, at last, giving into the affection she has smothered, and places her own hands against his face in kind.

“I love you,” she admits, quiet and terrified. “Real or not. I feel it.”

He nods incrementally against her, with sorrow and relief, as she finally understands what he has been trying to tell her all along. He sighs against her lips, his thumbs stroking her cheeks, as they both take a moment to share the space between them.

At last, when Yennefer feels the waves settle within her, she inches forward to take his lips between hers. This time, she kisses him soft and gentle, like she has been afraid to do all this time. He groans at the intimacy that he had so clearly been missing - a desert, always longing for rain - and tightens his grip on her even as he kisses back just as intently. She tastes salt on their lips and moisture on her cheeks and doesn’t know who is crying; doesn’t care to. She just holds on and lets his love surround her until its the only thing she can feel.

If they were at home at the ruined fortress of Kaer Morhen, she would let him take her to bed and let him demonstrate all the apologies he has stored within him and in return she would give him all the love she has denied him, but they have no such luxuries here. Their ward sleeps only a few feet away and danger surrounds them. Why couldn’t they have resolved this at an earlier time? When they had the whole of Kaer Morhen to themselves?

Geralt seems to realise this concurrently and breaks their kiss with a soft sigh. His thumbs still move on her cheeks as he looks at her with warm eyes. Now he has permission to show his affection it seems he cannot resist, returning for a kiss, and then another, until Yennefer has to push him away with a laugh. “There will be time for that,” she promises.

He nods, eyelids heavy, as he goes in for one final kiss; chaste and earnest in its longevity. When he leaves this time, it’s with kisses on her cheeks and the retreat of his hands, until he is left staring at her, wide and unblinking in awe, like she herself has spun the universe into creation. (A look he has witnessed on the bard’s face many a time, she can’t help but notice.)

“We will find the djinn that bound us,” he promises earnestly, still kneeling at her feet.

She meets his eyes and feels him relax his mental fortifications, letting her in, so she can see the truth in it. The sight is more satisfying than any carnal reconciliation would be.

“I love you,” she repeats, because now the words are free to her, she cannot help but speak them.

“And I, you, Yennefer of Vengerburg.”

-

As the days pass and they reach the coastal town of Talgon, unease falls heavy on Yennefer’s shoulders even though, for the first time in many years, there is no unease left between her and Geralt. No, this disquieting feeling stems from another source entirely.

Ciri has not had a prophetic nightmare since that first night but wakes with fear nonetheless - and although Geralt wilfully believes this to mean that the danger has passed, it reads more to Yennefer like sorcery; that whatever danger approaches, someone is smart enough to conceal behind a magical barrier. At least if Ciri had been allowed to see her nightmares, they would know what danger they left Vesemir in, or know what waited before them. As it is, they are flying blind. They can only assume that the Nilfgaardians made it to Kaer Morhen and that Vesemir has been successful in convincing them of their absence, but in truth, any number of things could have happened and they wouldn’t know.

Unease is the most pleasant word for it. Dread, would be another.

Regardless of her concerns, they arrive at the sleepy fishing village of Talgon a week after they left Kaer Morhen, exactly as planned.

“Hmm,” Geralt says beside her, inspecting the town and its occupants the best he can as dusk falls around them. She wonders what he sees: to her it appears no different than the countless desolate villages back in Velen except that fur has replaced rags and frost has replaced mud. It holds the same stench of misery though.

“I shall find a merchant,” he says thoughtfully, likely considering the coin he can acquire for the various treasures they found on their travels. “And a blacksmith,” he says, and then he locks eyes with her and a small playful smile lights his lips, “And perhaps also a barber.”

Yennefer flushes under his gaze, remembering the benefits from the last time he was clean shaven and wondering how much better it will feel now she can let herself fully indulge in his affections. Before Ciri can pick up on the innuendo, Yennefer turns to her and suggests they go to the tavern to see if her new tutor has arrived.

Ciri perks up at the suggestion, but likely more from the idea of warmth and food than her education. Yennefer can’t blame her. The first thing she will do upon booking their rooms is order a steaming hot bath for them all. She is, despite herself, also very eager to see Triss Merigold.

Geralt bids them farewell with a tilt of his head as he effortlessly lifts their many laden bags and heads towards the market. Embarrassingly, her eyes are drawn to him as he does so. Anticipation thrums under her skin and has for the last three days. Tonight, perhaps, they will finally be able to indulge in their desires.

Yennefer leads Ciri towards the tavern - a place already glowing with warmth and bursting with boisterous laughter, even in the early eve. Yennefer starts to feel the cold seeping from her bones as the large fire burns at the back of the hall and before it, the most beautiful sight, Triss Merigold flushed with warmth, a drink before her and a novella in her hands.

“This is her?” Ciri asks beside her and Yennefer realises belatedly that she had stopped in her tracks the moment she saw her like a love-struck child.

“Yes,” she answers, jolting into motion once more. “Let me introduce you.”

As she predicted, the two of them get along exceptionally. Ciri is shy at first until she notices the book in Triss’s hands and then they are discussing the details of romantic plots that Yennefer has never cared one whit for, and she knows she can leave them long enough to book a room.

“-I’ve a spare bed in my room,” Triss calls back, in what one might optimistically call an invitation, “If you, or Ciri here-” she says with a kind smile at the girl “-would like to occupy it.”

Her eyes meet Yennefer’s, earnest and yearning, and Yennefer knows that although she would undoubtedly love to bond with her new student, she would much prefer to spend the time otherwise occupied with Yennefer.

Yennefer finds herself hesitating, almost falling prey to Triss’s charm, but… _Geralt_. Yennefer closes her eyes and rests her mind, an invitation for Triss to read her, and read her she does. There is a bashful, but understanding, smile on Triss’s lips when Yennefer opens her eyes once more. “Ah, but I see, you already have plans.”

“Another time, perhaps,” Yennefer says, and means it. She almost wishes she could pry Ciri away from her new mentor just long enough to confirm her affirmation. Almost. But she sees the way Ciri lights up when Triss mentions the mischief they can get up to instead - remembers the games and fun they used to get up to at Aretuza at her age that no doubt Triss will educate her in - and cannot deny Ciri the rarity of forming a new friendship.

After all, if Triss accompanies them to Skellige, they ought to have plenty of opportunities to keep each other company.

-

Geralt returns with lighter bags and heavier coin sometime later, freshly shaved, and looking far more delectable than he has any right to be considering the man has not bathed in over a week.

He greets her with an uncertain but lingering kiss on her hair and the warmth of the touch spreads through her; so unaccustomed to Geralt’s open affection. He tosses Ciri her sheathed sword - “sharpened,” he states - and then sits down, nodding his head to Triss Merigold in greeting. “Good to see you again,” he says as he plucks the bread off Yennefer’s plate and begins to eat. “How were your travels?”

“Not nearly as onerous as yours, or so I hear. Despite your troubles, I was happy to hear about certain, other developments though,” she says pointedly. Yennefer bites down on her smile as she feels herself flush with embarrassment.

“As am I,” Geralt says in what, to most people, would sound like a monotone. His hand comes to rest upon her thigh and Yennefer is suddenly far too warm. “Have we booked rooms?” he asks nonchalantly as he continues eating their scraps from dinner.

“Two,” she reassures him. “We will be across the corridor from Triss and Ciri. They wanted time to “bond” but I think what they actually mean is “make mischief.””

Geralt grins, a rare and beautiful sight, as in one fell swoop she reassures him both of their privacy and of Ciri’s happiness. “Very well,” he says with an amused upturning of lips. “I wouldn’t want to stand in the way of such salient engagements.”

“Come,” she says to him, her patience wearing thin after three days of anticipation. “I ordered us a bath and I desperately desire to rid you of the congealing alghoul guts in your hair,” she says, reaching over to pick something questionable out of his tangled hair.

He smiles crookedly again, in a way that brings warmth to her cheeks and a flutter to her heart. He turns to the others and nods them farewell as he rises to his feet. “If you excuse me, ladies, it appears I have been given my orders for the night.”

The girls laugh at Geralt’s expense as Yennefer takes him by the hand and leads him towards the stairs. Peace, at last, begins to settle on her shoulders.

-

Yennefer fully intends to bathe him properly but as soon as they are both naked in the large bath, she cannot stop her hands from wandering. Neither can Geralt apparently, as his lips trail across her body and his fingers make their way under her folds.

She sighs into his touch, his ministrations more calculated, more reverent, than before. He is worshipping her, and begging pardon, and demonstrating his love, in the only way he knows how.

Her fingers clench at his shoulders as he brings her to her first climax but it’s not enough, it will never be enough. She takes his lips firmly between her own as she climbs over his strong thighs and lowers herself onto him.

He grunts in surprise but holds onto her firmly as she begins to move. He fears it will be like last time - she can sense his doubt creeping into his mind - but it is not. This is no longer simply a release for her. She needs to demonstrate, just as effectively as he had, that their pact of indifference now lies in the past. _“Don’t you ever tire of a little gentle lovemaking?”_ she had teased him about Jaskier but now she clings to him, rolling her hips slowly and deliciously, and kissing every gasp that falls from his lips, she regrets the callous words. How could anyone ever tire of this? Of the great Geralt of Rivia lying before them, wrought to the edge of despair, desperate for their love? She cannot believe she denied herself such a magnificent sight for so long. Their eyes lock as they approach climax and she can see everything behind his eyes so clearly, like he’s laying it all bare before her, and she wants to kiss every dark corner of his mind.

 _Show me your every desire_ , she whispers into his mind, and she sees their future laid before them.

-

Afterwards, they manage to finish bathing and climb into bed, sated and fatigued from their travels. They doze for no longer than an hour before she is awoken by Geralt trailing exquisite and determined kisses along her thighs. As he puts his mouth on her it firmly substantiates her earlier suspicions that the act would feel even more divine after their declarations. It feels like a veritable _love letter_ as he wrenches a third climax from her.

Yet, she cannot deny him when he returns to her once again and delivers her her fourth… and her fifth...

-

They leave early the next morn to catch a boat to Pont Vanis. As Geralt suspected, none of the meagre fishing vessels at Talgon were hardy enough to survive the arduous voyage to Skellige. Instead, they would set sail for the capital and hope to find passage there. Geralt had arranged transport the previous evening between bartering for supplies and sharpening blades and now, as Yennefer carries their scant luggage towards the boat, wonders what this surprisingly decent vessel cost him.

Whatever childish games and gossip transpired between Ciri and her new tutor last night seems to have cemented their friendship as they race merrily towards the dock. Ciri is hampered, however, by Geralt’s playfighting - picking her off her feet and delaying her with a dramatic spin more typically reserved for ballrooms than battlefields. He would look good in a smart tunic leading her across the dancefloor, she muses distractedly. She hopes Jaskier at least has had the privilege of witnessing such a sight where she is so tragically bereft.

Yennefer watches with an indulgent smile as her family enjoys the early morn but an unease starts to creep in at her from the edges, halting her from partaking in the merriment. Something isn’t right here. Something hangs in the atmosphere that should not be here.

She doesn’t know what it is until Geralt, too, pauses suddenly in his movements - Ciri still caught in his arms - and looks south. She hears it then: horses, at full speed, at least three of them, heading towards the sleepy fishing village of Talgon.

He lets Ciri down as Triss hurries back towards them, their game forgotten.

“Who is it? Nilfgaard?” Triss asks urgently as a distant blot of black appears on the horizon.

“We should leave,” Yennefer states, not wanting to wait around to see if their new companions are friend or foe. “Set sail without the captain. Head for-”

“No,” Ciri says firmly, stepping away from the boat and back towards town. “No, we must stay,” she says. She speaks with certainty but with a look of confusion on her face, as if she does not yet know why.

Then, all of a sudden, she gasps, and darts towards their abandoned luggage on the dock. Triss runs after her, calling her name frantically.

Geralt, however, looks to the horizon with scrutiny as the figures begin to make themselves clear. Black clothing and a hasty speed. Nilfgaard.

“How the fuck did they find us?” Yennefer curses, sharing a look of despair with Geralt. It’s too quick for them to have come from Kaer Morhen. They must have travelled directly to Talgon from Novigrad.

He seems to have come to the same conclusion as he draws his steel sword. “I don’t know,” he says, “But they will regret it.”

Beside him, Ciri returns with her own sword unsheathed.

Yennefer looks between them and wishes she could be surprised. “You realise this is immensely foolish, I assume?”

“Yeah,” Geralt growls. “We know.”

-

As they stand waiting for the Nilfgaardians in the market square, Yennefer reasons that perhaps this plan isn’t as totally hopeless at it used to be. They have Triss, after all, and unless Fringilla is hiding something, not one of her men are skilled in the art of sorcery. Nevertheless, Yennefer’s sense of unease does not abate; it’s as if her magic knows something that she is not yet permitted to perceive.

As they stand their ground outside the market square, Triss whispers the answer to her, “Fringilla is not among them. Do you see it?”

Yennefer frowns. There are three horses, each with a rider or two, but none of whom carry the unmistakable figure of their friend from Aretuza. Yennefer closes her eyes and reaches out with her mind, but Triss is right - Fringilla is not here. “Perhaps they hedged their bets,” she theorises. “Fringilla went to Kaer Morhen and sent the others here. Fuck knows why though. Three soldiers against a witcher is nothing. They must have an advantage, something we don’t-”

And then her speech falters and a heavy weight of dread pools in her stomach as she sees _exactly_ what they have.

Geralt raises his hand beside her, ready to cast whatever sign he has in mind, when the leader of the pack halts his horse and taunts, “Now, now, now, witcher. I wouldn’t do anything so hasty if I were you. We come with a delectable offer, a trade you might say, that you might find rather tempting.”

Geralt glowers but doesn’t lower his hands. “There is nothing you could offer me. Nothing I would trade for Ciri.”

The Nilfgaardian soldier smirks and moves to dismount, revealing his secret cargo behind him. “Really, witcher,” he drawls, “Because rumour has it that this scoundrel does a lot more than ‘toss you a coin,’” he says with a lecherous jeer as he callously hauls his offering off the horse. “Given his unwise and persistent resistance to disclose your whereabouts, I have reason to believe there might be some truth in the matter.”

The offering is dumped unceremoniously in the mud at the soldier’s feet. A shrouded, beaten, wretched figure lies before them. A man so beaten even his fingers are swollen with breakages. As he raises his head from the muddy ground, the cape slips from around him revealing a very familiar, but very beaten, face.

Yennefer watches as Geralt’s face pales to an impossible white. His outstretched hand shakes and his mouth opens on the name -

“ _Jaskier_.”


	3. Chapter 3

“ _Jaskier-_ ” Geralt says and the very way he says the name snaps her heart clean in two.

They’re fucked. They’re utterly fucked. There’s no way Geralt will leave Jaskier in the hands of these men.

Yennefer takes stock of the bard’s broken body on the ground; the man barely recognisable beneath the layers of abuse he has endured. Some of his wounds appear to be weeks old but others, like the fierce cut on his forehead, are fresh and still bleeding. He is skinny, his torn clothes hanging loose, as if he has eaten nothing but crumbs for days. Broken fingers, black eye, countless cuts and bruises, and multiple internal injuries judging from his slow and pained movements. The mere act of raising his head to look at Geralt seems to cause the bard great pain. When the two men lock eyes, she sees more than she wants to see but amongst the rush of emotion there is an unspoken apology - zealous and remorseful. It confirms what she had already suspected: that Jaskier is the reason Nilfgaard found them. Yennefer wonders how long the bard endured their torture before he gave up their location; his grevious injuries would certainly attest to withstanding much more torment than she would have previously anticipated. A hidden strength lies within him; one that she had never truly appreciated.

The soldier is cruelly mocking Geralt’s distraught expression; gloating back to his buddies that the venereal rumour was indeed true. Yennefer sees Geralt snarl and his fingers form into a fearsome fist. There is no use in denying the rumours of their entanglement, not when Geralt displays the truth in his countenance so ardently.

Yennefer steps in before Geralt can act on his violent impulses. They need more information before they can act. “Where did you find him?”

The soldier barks out another laugh as his two cronies halt their horses astride him. “Where _didn’t_ we find him?” he jests with a kick at Jaskier’s back, sharing an inside joke with his comrades - snarling, mocking, equally as despicable men - as they dismount to join their leader.

Much to her dismay, Jaskier doesn’t so much as flinch as the man kicks him face-first into the muddy ground. Unbidden, she slips into his mind and sees that the fight has left him. He has acclimated to this level of abuse and has no energy left to fight it. She senses Geralt come to the same dire conclusion and wraps her hand around his clenched fist in deterrence.

“The fool attempted to track us. Stalked us all round Novigrad like a street cat looking for scraps,” the leader sneers, using the heel of his boot to roll Jaskier over onto his back. The bard lets out a weak groan at the movement, his mud-caked face clenched tight in pain. “Ain’t that right, you piece of shit?” he snarls and then spits on the bard’s broken body.

Geralt growls beside her and Yennefer fears she will not be able to abate his impulses much longer. She doesn’t even _like_ the bard and is filled with a desire to see the man hurting him meet his untimely end, but whatever she feels she knows Geralt must feel compounded.

“We let him do it. Had our fun. We might even have let him go if he hadn’t had to gall to try and _trick_ us,” the leader says with a cruel laugh, his boot remaining firmly on Jaskier’s chest. “Singing sweetly of a witcher and an ashen-haired girl heading to Toussaint. Fringilla doesn’t care for lies, does she bard?” He pushes his heel deep into Jaskier’s chest and at that he _does_ yelp; gasping for breath helplessly like a fish on a sandbank.

Geralt surges forward and it’s only because of Yennefer’s pinched hand around his wrist that he does not succeed. _Wait for your moment_ , she urges him. Geralt growls beside her but obediently stills his movements, her advice seeming to have penetrated his thick skull.

“So we smashed your precious lute, beat your precious face,” the leader says, taunting Jaskier as he pulls him up by the chin, “Tortured your lovesick mind. Broke more bones than I could count. But after two days of torture, do you know what finally made the whoreson crack?” This he asks of Geralt who is fixing him with such a formidable glare that Yennefer’s surprised the soldier doesn’t burn on sight. “Go on,” he taunts. “Guess.”

Geralt is now growling with such a ferocity that he truly lives up to his moniker of White Wolf.

“What?” Yennefer asks through gritted teeth as Geralt is clearly not going to indulge these monsters in their games. “What was it?”

It’s one of the sidekicks that talks, preening over his chestnut horse. “When we threatened to lay a hand on his goddamn horse.”

Geralt hadn’t noticed yet, too occupied with Jaskier, but when his eyes stray towards them, Yennefer _feels_ the moment he recognises the mare.

They have Roach.

They have Roach and they have Jaskier. Yennefer closes her eyes in anticipation for the bloody massacre they were about to inflict on this sleepy little village.

“So,” the leader says, pulling out a dagger and placing it firmly against Jaskier’s throat, close enough to bleed, “Now we've come to the bargaining part of the arrangement. Give me the girl, and your sweet little bard lives.”

Yennefer feels Geralt’s pulse beat beneath her hand, so fast it almost matches her own. As soon as she lets go, he will take it as a signal to leap into the fray. She knows he has the new potion in his hand - _quicksilver_ , as Ciri has taken to calling it - and he only needs a second’s headstart to drink it and the battle is as good as won. But, the opposition have a knife to his lover’s throat and Jaskier is looking at Geralt with wide, pleading, heartfelt eyes, and Yennefer knows that even the smallest mistake could cost them everything.

She closes her eyes and slips into Geralt’s mind, immediately caught off-guard by the heavy weight of memories she sees there. Another village. Another ambush. Another lover caught in the cross-hairs. _Blaviken_ , she realises with dread. They were only five miles north of the place that haunts his dreams. They never should have come here. They should have steered far clear. If Geralt remains paralysed by past mistakes, then he will hesitate, and that hesitation will cost them something dear.

She opens her eyes and speaks as soft and as urgent as she can to him - _This time_ , she assures him, _You will not be alone_.

She feels his stuttered inhale, knows that he heard her, but his eyes do not stray from Jaskier’s. A silent conversation seems to happen between them and then Geralt nods imperceptibly.

“No,” Geralt states.

“No? No what?”

“No, you will not have her.”

Geralt reaches for the potion. The soldiers reach for their swords. The knife digs deeper into Jaskier’s neck.

Then: “Raven,” Jaskier gasps nonsensically. “Emerald.”

And as the knife slices across his neck and Geralt’s eyes widen in horror, time slows to a trickle and Yennefer realises three things in quick succession -

Geralt loves this man. He might not realise it yet but he does, unequivocally.

If Geralt loses Jaskier he will wage a one-man war against the entirety of Nilfgaard.

If Geralt is to live, therefore, _Jaskier cannot die_.

By the time she has reached this conclusion, the knife has finished its path, Jaskier is falling to the ground, blood gushing from the wound, and Geralt is striding towards the soldiers, faster than should be physically possible, sword striking at a deadly angle towards the leader.

Yennefer is plunged back into the present and lunges towards forward Jaskier, trousers tearing at the knee from the rapid movement. Blood from the leader splatters down onto her as she leans over Jaskier and raises her hands above him, ready to cast. He is still gasping, blood pooling, he has perhaps moments before he leaves the mortal realm. Yennefer closes her eyes and pours every single morsel of energy she has into sealing the fatal wound.

Around her, battle wages - she hears the clash of metal and the rumble of earth - but she trusts that the three of them will protect her as she works. Nothing is more important than this. _Nothing_. Jaskier isn’t some dalliance as she supposed, they’re not even falling in love as Yennefer had feared, no, their lives were already bound, and Ciri's future would depend on his survival.

 _“You believe it was destiny that brought you together?”_ she had asked Geralt the first night they lay under the stars together and he saw what she could not. Ciri’s vision of the broken lute in the sky, her nightmares of a man beaten... destiny had been warning them and Yennefer had been too strong-willed to listen. Jaskier was important to them, already tied into their story, and Yennefer had been so eager to deny it that he might now die in her arms.

“Come on,” she mutters, feeling his life force drain away even after the fresh wound has healed. He has lost too much blood. His body is too weak to fight.

“Fuck,” she whispers, and urgently calls on the reserve energy deep within her. “Come on,” she pleads with him. He has to live, he _has_ to, or Geralt will shatter and take everything they have built with him.

 _“Jaskier is a good man,”_ she had told him. _“He looks out for you. I’m glad you have someone to…”_

_Love._

She feels something move within him and calls out to it. _Yes! Yes, you love him,_ she urges, _Don’t be a coward and die with the knowledge. Live to tell him._

Jaskier shudders to life beneath her hands. The resistance she had been facing suddenly recedes. His heart restarts. Blood starts to flow. His bones begin to fuse and his bruises begin to clear. There isn’t enough life left in her to cure all the wounds but they will heal, yes, they will heal.

 _Thank you, thank you, thank you_ \- is all she can think as she finally opens her eyes to the massacre around her, to the swathes of blood and Geralt’s enraged howl, and then, darkness begins to creep in at the edges of her vision and she promptly passes out.

-

There are gentle hands on her cheeks, not Geralt, too small to be Geralt, too soft -

“Triss,” Yennefer murmurs, opening her eyes to see her beautiful face, blurred, but very much alive.

“You used-” Triss is saying.

“I know, I felt it.”

“I could have used a potion-”

“ _I know_ ,” Yennefer snaps and regrets the hurt look on her friend’s face but she is too wrecked to acknowledge the extent of her power. Triss doesn’t understand the severity of Jaskier’s injuries - doesn’t know how close he was to dying, to changing _everything_ \- a potion would have done fuck all. Yennefer pushes her anger aside, knowing Triss is undeserving of it. “Is everyone okay?”

Triss assists as Yennefer attempts to sit up. It looks as if mere moments have passed. Geralt is in front of Roach, his face pressed against her forehead as if silently communing with the beast. Ciri is standing over a body, sword dripping red, surveying the land. There are bodies, weapons, and branches strewn about the streets and villagers cowering in doorways. And Jaskier lies before them, bloody, but breathing, his chest rising and falling in a steady, reassuring pattern.

Yennefer breathes out a sigh of relief as Triss helps her to stand. Worryingly, Geralt has not yet turned away from Roach. Muttering something to her, too quiet to discern.

Yennefer approaches him warily, shaking off Triss’s concerned hands as she does so. Does Geralt not yet realise that Jaskier lives?

When she is at last close enough to hear his words, she realises they are not words at all, but sobs. There is a telling moisture on his cheeks and tension in his back as if it takes every ounce of energy for him to keep standing.

The sight leaves her momentarily speechless; she had wondered if witchers could cry but had hoped she would never have reason to find out. Now, she knows the truth and her heart breaks with it.

Geralt is mourning; it is the only word for it.

Cautiously, she reaches out until her fingertips brush his shoulder. He jars at the touch but doesn’t dissuade her as her hand settles on his trembling back.

“He lives, Geralt,” she urges. “He _lives_.”

Geralt turns away from Roach with wary disbelief, one hand still on her muzzle as his tearful amber eyes look to hers with incredulity. He doesn't dare believe it.

She steps aside so he can see for himself - the rise and fall of his chest, the steady heartbeat that she knows he will be able to hear, even as he lies on the ground caked in mud and gore - and she watches him slowly blink in realisation.

“You-?” he asks her, bewildered.

“Yes,” she confirms, unable to believe it herself outside the heat of battle. “He will be fine. He needs to rest an hour, perhaps more-”

But Geralt is already pushing past her and running towards him, falling to his knees beside the bard with a heaviness that goes beyond the physical. She watches with her heart in her throat as he cradles his face in his hands and leaves a lingering, longing, kiss on his forehead. She smiles wistfully at the sight, feeling the hurricane of emotion within him like it were her own.

The three of them watch in revered silence as Geralt tenderly gathers Jaskier in his arms and stands, his eyes not leaving his lover once. He takes the first step towards the tavern when he hesitates and turns back towards them, his eyes locking with Yennefer’s. “Thank you,” he says sincerely, his voice no louder than the distant flutter of sails.

His love is outpouring again, flowing towards her like the incoming tide, and she bathes in it wantingly. She nods her head in recognition of his gratitude, and when he has seen his love accepted, he turns and makes his way once more to the tavern.

-

“I know him…” Ciri muses at their retreating figures. “Jaskier. I saw him in my dreams.”

Yennefer turns to look at her but it’s not long before her pensive stare is replaced by an amused lilt of lips.

“I assume he is this ‘other pursuit’ you spoke of.”

Yennefer sends her a withering glare.

“Didn’t think you were the jealous type,” Triss teases.

“I’m not,” Yennefer snaps. It’s just a joke but it’s too close to the truth of how they used to be. Not anymore though. She looks around at the wary bystanders and the dead bodies between them and concludes, “We should clear this up.”

“In a moment,” Triss says, striding through the wreckage towards the dead leader and his black mare.

“What are you doing?” Ciri asks before Yennefer can verbalise as much.

Triss looks back to them, puzzled, as if it should be obvious. “Raven,” she says, tilting her head towards the dock noticeboard where a large black bird caws in acknowledgement. “Emerald.” When Triss looks between them and sees their blank expressions she explains, “Jaskier’s last words. Clearly a message: Use the raven to send the emerald to Kaer Morhen.”

Not for the first time, Yennefer is inordinately thankful that they have Triss and her impeccable intuition accompanying them. Yennefer had thought it no more than the ramblings of a dying man but it appears she has once again underestimated the bard. Of course it was a message. “What do you suppose it means?” Yennefer asks as Triss successfully finds the gem tucked away in the leader’s front pocket.

Triss holds out her hand, and Yennefer sees that alongside the green gem, is a shining red ruby.

“It’s a code,” Ciri infers. “Green for success, red for failure. It was used as a signal during Nilfgaard’s founding.”

Yennefer raises her eyebrow, impressed. Perhaps all those history books Vesemir has her reading aren’t a total waste of time after all.

Triss pockets the ruby and puts the other to the pouch already affixed to the raven’s outstretched leg. “You are most likely correct. Presumably Fringilla asked her men to send word as soon as they found you. If she truly is at Kaer Morhen, interrogating Vesemir, then no doubt his life rests upon the arrival of this raven and the emerald.”

Begrudgingly, Yennefer admits she is starting to have some respect for the bard. He attempted to mislead the Nilfgaardians on behalf of their cause, withstood untold torture to protect a girl he does not even know, and then, knowing he was facing certain death, used his last words not to bid Geralt goodbye or beg for his life but rather to save yet another stranger. He may be foolish but his heart was good and his behaviour admirable. Perhaps, at last, she understands a little of what Geralt sees in the man.

Triss steps back and lets the bird fly free. They all watch as it takes flight towards the mountains on the path to Kaer Morhen.

“As soon as Fringilla receives word, she will portal here, I’ve no doubt about it,” Triss says. “She does not need to hide anymore.”

“How long do we have?” Ciri asks Yennefer.

Fuck knows. Geralt is the one who could calculate the birds speed over the land traversed without so much as a “hmm”. Yennefer frowns and tries to calculate an estimate herself. If it took them a week meandering through the mountains by foot, it would be much faster for a bird to fly directly over them. However, the bird must still need to rest, and the cold must still take its toll. Therefore they must still have some hours, at least, before Fringilla arrives. Hopefully enough time for the bard to rest and for the five of them to scrounge together a new plan. Triss and Ciri still look to her for an answer, “Three hours,” she says, a good guess as any. “I want to be gone before midday.”

-

Yennefer and Triss strip the bodies of anything valuable before moving the corpses away from the village. Yennefer sets them aflame in a frosty field while Triss washes the streets of their blood. They normally wouldn’t go to such lengths, and can’t imagine Geralt has ever done so, but they need the villagers’ good grace while Jaskier recovers in their tavern and clearing the battlefield is the only meaningful thing she can think to do.

Meanwhile, Ciri is tending to the horses. By the time Yennefer has returned to her, Ciri has clearly bonded with Jaskier’s grey mare.

“What’s her name?” Ciri asks, stroking down her side affectionately.

“Belle,” Yennefer says, not realising she possessed the information until she said it. It was the night she caught him by the tavern on her way to find Geralt. _Don’t worry, Belle_ , he had thought, _even Yennefer’s not as beautiful as you_. “I believe Jaskier has spent some time in Toussaint. The name means “beautiful” in their tongue. Knowing Jaskier, he likely chose the horse on beauty alone.”

Ciri smiles and keeps brushing down the horse. “And Roach?” she asks, looking across to Geralt’s chestnut mare, who stamps and snorts at her name. “What’s the story behind her name?”

Yennefer is caught off guard, not actually knowing the answer. “Ask Jaskier,” she suggests. “I’m sure he’s spun a tale about it by now.”

Ciri laughs again and Yennefer is caught by the juxtaposition: the young girl playing with horses, laughing, and happy… while covered in her enemy’s blood.

“I’m going to check on the two of them,” Yennefer says. “Are you and Triss okay to finish up here?”

“Of course,” Ciri says, reaching down for an apple that Belle immediately chows down on. “And I’ll head to the market too. I know a little about music. I might be able to find him a replacement for his lute.”

“Ciri-” Yennefer starts but Ciri cuts her off with a roll of her eyes.

“You’re saying after all Jaskier’s done for us he doesn’t deserve a little kindness? It’s his livelihood. And it was only because he was trying to protect me that he lost it in the first place.”

Yennefer sees the determination in Ciri’s eyes and sighs sadly. The girl’s heart is in the right place but it’s also likely a girl borne of royalty doesn’t understand quite how much musical instruments can fetch. Yennefer reaches into her pocket and procures her coin purse, dropping it into her hand.

“I’ll order you a bath,” Yennefer says, in lieu of addressing the matter at hand. “By the time you’re finished, sleeping beauty should be awake and we can discuss our plans.”

“Thank you,” Ciri says, clutching the purse in her hands. “I’ll find the handsomest lute in the village.”

“You’ll find the _only_ lute in the village, my dear, but… buy it, whatever the cost.”

-

Yennefer doesn’t bother knocking as she strides into their room; she has seen, quite literally, it all before. Geralt is on his knees by the bathtub, passing a sponge over Jaskier’s limp body even though his skin is long-since clean of mud.

“I wanted to…” Geralt begins, dragging his eyes from the bard towards her. “The bath had not yet been emptied. He was covered in so much blood.”

They are all drenched in blood, but she understands his meaning: Jaskier’s blood was actually his own. The smell alone probably compounded Geralt into his wretched state.

Yennefer rests her hand on his shoulder as Geralt returns his gaze to the dirty water and the naked, lifeless man within it. She wonders if his hands shook as he undressed him. If he cried once again when he saw the extent of the damage.

Her magic was not strong enough to heal the superficial wounds of cuts and bruises. An angry red scar still lines his throat. His chest is a patchwork of bruises. His bones, she knows, will be weak; not fully healed. Geralt seems to have realised the limits of her capabilities too; numerous potions and bandages lie beside the bathtub. Jaskier’s broken fingers are bound together; evidence of Geralt’s attentive ministrations.

“Will you help me?” he asks. “I want to bind his ribs.”

Yennefer nods. He doesn’t need physical assistance, she knows, but rather for the care that comes after. Geralt’s open shirt drips with dirty bathwater as he rises with the bard in his arms and lies him ever so tenderly down on the bed.

Geralt slips a pair of shorts over Jaskier’s hips, giving them the illusion of privacy, while Yennefer reaches for the bandages and then together they undertake the task of binding his ribs. “I’m sorry I cannot heal him further,” Yennefer says when they are finished. “I need to conserve my energy for the next leg of our journey.”

Geralt started shaking his head before she had even finished. “No need, you have done more than enough.” He reaches out a hand then, and Yennefer takes it, circling the bed to stand behind him as he sits beside Jaskier.

Geralt rests his head back on her stomach with a weary sigh. The events of this morning have rendered him emotionally exhausted. Yennefer slips her fingers into his hair, running her fingers through the strands and massaging the roots and feels the comfort radiate from him. He makes another strangled sound and reaches once more for her hand, tangles their fingers together while still in his hair. “Thank you,” he murmurs once again.

Yennefer presses a kiss atop their joined hands and they stay that way for moments, watching Jaskier’s chest rise and fall in a way that still seems miraculous.

“He was ready to die for us,” Geralt murmurs.

Yennefer sighs and for once doesn’t need to resort to mind-reading to know where the admiration in his voice stems from. “You don’t believe you deserve such loyalty.”

“You didn’t hear the things I said to him,” Geralt says brokenly. “After you left on King Niedamir's mountain he tried to comfort me and I…” he winces in memory and for the first time Yennefer wonders just how devastating that conversation was if it’s still affecting them to this day. “I lashed out at him,” Geralt admits, and Yennefer doesn’t miss the way his other hand seems to inch forward on the bedsheets as if reaching for Jaskier.

“Like a wounded pup, no doubt,” Yennefer infers and having had enough of Geralt’s maudlin eyes, turns to dip a rag into a clean pot of water. “He’s a smart boy. He would have known as much,” she counsels as she begins to wipe the blood from her body. “Besides, your brutal rejection probably prompted three very profitable ballads on the subject. He cannot have minded all that much.”

Geralt shakes his head, denying the absolution she offers him. “I hurt him. Deeply.”

“And he probably forgave you the moment you kissed him,” she says, throwing him the wet rag. “I say, speaking from experience.”

He catches it with a grunt but obligingly begins to wipe away at his own gore. “I doubt that’s true,” he growls, scraping the rag across his bare shoulder.

“Allow me to clarify then,” she says, taking the rag from him and washing it before she sits beside him on the bed and takes the duty into her own hands. “I knew you sought forgiveness when you kissed me; I merely delayed in giving it to you.” Yennefer cleans the rag again as she recalls their conversation about the djinn and tries to pinpoint exactly when it was that she had forgiven him. It hadn’t been his apology for his actions but his _explanation_ for them. “Explain why. Show him you care. Perhaps, if you are capable of the act, you might even thank him for what he has done.”

Geralt grunts, his gaze distant, and Yennefer allows herself to drift into his thoughts while they stir so tumultuously. Doubt. Hesitation. Fear. He believes his feelings to be unrequited. He fears revealing too much if he dare acknowledge a mistake. _If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands -_

Geralt’s memory of his own enraged voice fostered against Jaskier pushes Yennefer out of his mind. That is what happened then. Those are the words that Geralt won’t forgive himself for.

Yennefer rinses the cloth for the last time and sets it aside. There is no use speaking of love, then, if Geralt has not yet accepted it. There is no use advising him to speak, then, if his lips are sewn together in fear. She sighs and tries a new tactic, one that she also knows from experience will open the door for him. “Jaskier has proven that his loyalty remains. Don’t question it; simply strive to deserve it.”

Geralt swallows, heavy with emotion. He looks world-weary. Across the hall, she hears the laughter of Ciri and Triss as they enter their room and she sees a small smile appear on Geralt’s lips as he hears it too. There is love and pride in his heart even as he grieves for whatever sorrows lie between him and Jaskier.

A great exhaustion suddenly befalls her and Yennefer realises she is perhaps more wrung out from her healing magic than she had previously considered. She nudges Geralt to lie down and he goes easily, toppling down beside Jaskier, his legs still tangled with hers at the foot of the bed.

“Get some rest,” she says, leaning over him to press a kiss to his temple.

“Stay,” he murmurs, tangling their hands together, and her heart restricts at the tender gesture. “Won’t leave him.”

“Who said anything about leaving?” she jests, even though, until he spoke, that had been her exact intention.

He grunts and pulls her down with him until she is pressed against his back, holding him close, as he reaches out an arm across Jaskier’s still unresponsive body.

-

Yennefer wakes to a sudden, violent movement beside her. Her eyes fly open to see Jaskier, sat upright and wheezing beside them, his hands clawing at his neck. Geralt is there in no time, with strong arms pulling Jaskier’s hands away from his injury. Jaskier squirms in his grip, face contorted in pain, until Geralt speaks his name and with the immediacy of a broken spell, falls against him as limp as a rag doll.

“Geralt?” he asks, his face a picture of relief and astonishment. “You’re here. I can’t believe you’re -” There is love in his eyes so fierce that Yennefer genuinely doesn't understand how Geralt can’t see it. “What happened? I thought I was-” his hands still reach for his throat and then his voice cuts short when he sees Yennefer beside them on the bed. “Well, hello, this is certainly an unusual arrangement,” he remarks and she’s so relieved to hear Jaskier sounding like his normal self that Yennefer cannot help but smile.

“I saved your life, bard,” Yennefer says, feigning annoyance. “You could at least say ‘thank you.’”

“That makes it twice,” Jaskier observes and now his hands are less frantic Geralt lets them go so he can trace the angry red line on his throat in wonderment. “Thank you,” he says genuinely. “And I must admit waking up from this near-death experience with you is markedly less terrifying than the last… considerably less naked though,” he comments with a raised eyebrow at Geralt’s state of dress, “which is rather disappointing.”

“For both of us,” Yennefer states with a smirk, but before she can change the conversation, Jaskier is turning pale, his breaths laborious.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asks, his voice sharp with concern as he cradles the man in his arms. “What’s wrong? Are you-?”

Jaskier makes a panicked gesture at his bound ribs and Yennefer swears under her breath as she sits beside them. “The bones were barely fused, he probably fractured them again in his thrashing.” She strips the bandages as Jaskier continues to gasp in pain and then she closes her eyes and takes stock.

“Yen,” Geralt warns. “You need to conserve your energy.”

Yennefer grits her teeth, well aware of this fact, but it’s also common bloody sense that Jaskier won’t make it very far on the run when he can’t bloody breathe. She finds it - the broken bone pointing inwards - and fuses it back together. She loiters afterwards, using the tiny whispers of magic she has left to strengthen them and even lessen the bruises atop the skin. The other bones and minor injuries could wait but the ribs were tricky and Jaskier had already proven his ability to break them.

When she is done, Jaskier is looking at her with wide, thankful eyes. “Yet again I owe you my thanks. You know, if you carry on like this, I might start to think we're friends,” he teases.

She scowls but lets him have it as Geralt pulls Jaskier firmly, but gently, back into his arms.

Yennefer watches with a wistful smile as Jaskier strokes a reassuring thumb across Geralt’s possessive hands. She did the right thing. She knows she did the right thing. “I will leave you to reconcile, but first I must tell you both something,” she says, and resents how her breath catches on the words nevertheless. They could resent her for what she’s done. Jaskier, especially. She acted without his consent in much the same way Geralt did when he cast his wish.

Geralt reaches towards her at her uncharacteristic hesitation, his hand resting on her thigh in a supportive manner that is already becoming habitual. “What is it?” he asks, eyes searching and earnest. She wonders if he can smell her fear.

Yennefer feels her mouth twist as she tries to think how best to explain the sorcery at work, and despite her best efforts what comes out is - “Jaskier doesn’t look forty.”

Jaskier startles, either at the inadvertent compliment or the mere fact that he’s actually being acknowledged. “Thank you?” he says warily. “Though it pains me to admit that this beautiful, youthful face is down in part due to a fascinating new skincare regime from Skellige. It truly is very ingenious, you see, they use-”

Yennefer snorts in derision, cutting him short. “You don’t owe your youth to a cream, Jaskier, nor some fraudulent wisewoman on Skellige.”

“Oh? Then who must I thank for my, quite frankly, stunning looks?”

“ _Me_ , you nitwit.”

Jaskier frowns in confusion, his crow’s feet just barely showing at the corners of his eyes. He could be thirty, perhaps, but not forty, not by human standards. “And I’m sure that I do,” he says, politely puzzled. “But an explanation wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Because, I-” she breaks off, lost for words again. How other people survive without the ability to read minds is beyond her. She wishes just to pour this information into Jaskier’s mind and be done with it but he lacks the mental fortitude to withstand all that she wants to say. “When you were cursed by the djinn-”

Jaskier rolls his eyes and Yennefer chuckles, knowing he must be as sick of the damn thing as she is.

She bites down her smile and continues, “When I healed you, I inadvertently gave you more than I had intended.”

Geralt frowns, concern lighting his eyes. “What do you mean? What did you give him?”

Yennefer inhales sharply. Best cut to the chase. “Ten, twenty years, probably.”

Jaskier seems to get stuck on a word or three as he stares at her gormless.

“I didn’t realise it at the time,” she says, turning her explanation towards Geralt who likely cares more about the mechanics of it than the bard. “It is not something that I have ever achieved before. I didn’t know it was even possible, frankly. But the djinn’s magic was particularly difficult to unravel and perhaps I pushed myself more than was wise. I found a new source of magic within me, and used it. I did not know what it was, not truly, not until I used it again today.”

Geralt swallows and she can feel his conflicting emotions like a current below the waves of the sea. “How much did you give today?” he asks, voice deep with intent.

Yennefer bites her lip, anticipating his anger. “More,” she admits. “Much more. A hundred, perhaps.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jaskier says, finally having found some words.

She can feel the clogs still turning in his mind and gives it to him nice and plainly, “You are now, effectively, mutated by magic. Your cells altered. Your lifespan extended.”

Geralt, however, is three steps ahead like he always is in these situations. “And what about you, Yen?” he asks, his voice tinged with the anger she had predicted. “How long do you get to live for now that you have given your immortality to him?”

Jaskier’s eyes widen in realisation until both men are staring at her, expecting an answer to ease their concerns. “Don’t be so dramatic,” she chides. “There is hardly such a thing as immortality-”

“How, long, Yen?” Geralt growls, done with her games.

“I don’t know,” she admits, quietly, remembering Triss’s fearful look when she woke on the battlefield.

“ _Yennefer-_ ” she hears, but her name isn’t whispered from Geralt, she realises, but from Jaskier, who has also reached out to touch her, eyes ablaze with telling emotion.

She shakes off his grip, unable to take the sight. “Relax, both of you,” she says with a forced smile. “I’m sure it will only cost me the same in return. A trifle considering how long mages have a penchant to stick around for. If anything, I’ve done myself a favour. I won’t have to find out how intolerably boring life is after you two morons have expired.”

Geralt shakes his head, overflowing with emotion, as he roughly tangles his fingers in Yennefer’s hair and pulls her down into a passionate kiss.

She returns the kiss, absorbing his anger, his desperation, and his gratitude, and notes that Jaskier does not seem to mind their impassioned entanglement despite him lying only inches away.

She pulls away so she can look down at the bard who is grinning up at them wolfishly, “Don’t mind me, I could watch this all day.”

Yennefer scoffs at his endless flirtation and retreats further so she can look Jaskier in the eye. She frowns as she tries to read his mind but all she can sense is joy, and relief, and… love. A simple man with simple pleasures.

“If you’re reading my mind,” Jaskier jests, “Then I humbly request that you desist. I don’t want you to be privy to _all_ the naughty things I have planned for Geralt. It’ll ruin the surprise.”

Yennefer laughs as Geralt flushes, relieved that Jaskier does not seem to be feeling any anger towards her. “You do not resent me for altering your fate without your consent?” She asks, searching his face for an emotion but he still seems nonplussed. Yennefer pushes, “You realise that by extending your life thus, I have changed it irrevocably. Your lovers will die, even your children will die, long before you.”

Jaskier shrugs, and then winces, having forgotten he is still on the mend. “You did it to save my life, Yennefer. I could never resent you for such a thing. If anything…” he says, looking down at his hand entwined with Geralt’s, “you did me a great service.”

Yennefer is astounded by his steadfast acceptance. By the same logic, Yennefer ought not to resent the djinn. Geralt saved her life and in the process bound them together. Yennefer saved Jaskier’s life and in the process shared their lifespan. If Jaskier does not fault Yennefer, then Yennefer should not fault Geralt. It was not a choice, she sees that now; saving her was an _instinct_.

Yennefer watches their entwined fingers move together, curling around each other, weaving together, like the tapestry of destiny that brought them here, still shy and uncertain but with great promise.

It was not luck or happenstance that brought them here. It was destiny.

“What are you thinking about?” Geralt murmurs, guiding her out of her swirling thoughts as he reaches out to tuck a stray hair behind her ear.

Jaskier is nuzzling his chest and Yennefer understands that soon she will have to leave them to get reacquainted, and afterwards she will most likely be on the path again. They have many hurdles ahead of them but for now… for now, all the stars seem to align.

She leans down to place a tender kiss on his lips. “Destiny,” Yennefer confides.

“Is that so?” he asks against her lips, mouth curving into a smile as his fingers tangle delightfully in her hair.

“Yes,” she vows. “I’m starting to think it might not be total bullshit after all.”

Geralt laughs against her; a hallowed sound, certainly fit for the bard’s ballads, and one she hopes to hear over, and over, and over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this chapter was special to me for two reasons -  
> firstly, I got to add that sweet, sweet OT3 tag  
> secondly, I had the headcanon very early on that the reason we don't see Jaskier ageing in the show is because of the healing spell Yennefer performed during 'Bottled Appetites' and finally, 40k later, I got to write it
> 
> thanks for sticking with it - next in the series will be Jaskier's POV so he can boast about his heroics (because shockingly, there will actually be some)


End file.
